Olympic Rain and Novocain
by AddiCakes
Summary: A waitress's pain, a bartender's secrets, & one fateful night. "The silken lilt flowing from his flawless lips envelopes her…soothes her…rocks her gently back and forth…until the tingly sensation fades into numbness. Numb. Like Novocain." AH
1. Chapter 1: Nineteen

**Disclaimer:** Of course, I don't own any rights to Twilight—Stephenie Meyer does. I just enjoy playing in the beautiful world she's created for us.

**A/N:** If you're in the mood for some angst and dark secrets mixed with romance & sexual tension, please give my little story a try. I promise you will not be disappointed! The setting is much the same—Forks is Forks—but the characters are AH. I'll forewarn you that Bella Swan got a serious personality makeover & is now a Southern girl. Hope you enjoy! Love, AddiCakes ;-)

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Chapter One: Nineteen

The old, rusted Chevy rumbles down the rain-slickened streets of Forks, Washington, on a cool September evening. Isabella—no, just Bella, please—clutches the worn steering wheel and presses her tired foot on the gas as she makes her way home. The salt-white, two-story house is not home, really. Just a place for her to sleep, eat, and shower…a place for her sullen father Charlie to hang his gun belt and watch the Mariners on the plaid couch after work every day. This sleepy, overcast town has taken its toll on what was left of her sanity when she moved here in March just after everything happened… But she doesn't talk about that, and neither does Charlie.

It's almost nine on a Thursday night, and as usual, Bella has worked a double shift at the diner where the local lumberjacks and highway truck drivers come for the all-day breakfast menu and black coffee conversation. It's a far cry from being a promising career, but she makes good in tips and her boss is pretty easy-going as long as he has a full supply of cigarettes and caffeine. The thirteen-hour weekdays and half-day Saturdays motivate her blood to continue flowing through her veins, and give her a reason—however pathetic it may be—to wake up in the morning. If it weren't for jotting down orders from burly, bearded men, and wiping down sticky counters and tabletops, all she'd have to do all day is think. Think about her mother Renee's body under six feet of delta soil back home in Mississippi. Think about the scholarships she declined this spring because she can't find a reason to pursue a future when she's not sure she even wants one to begin with. Think about how the pile of empty beer cans next to Charlie's couch has grown to new heights in the last six months. Think about how she is turning nineteen this month and feels more like one of those forty-something waitresses that planned on doing things differently but never got around to it.

The grumbling truck comes to a stop beside Charlie's police cruiser in the driveway. She climbs out, mindful of the slippery pavement beneath her boots and immediately grows nostalgic for the long, dry summers of the South. In the Delta, the swelter of the summer sun starts in late April and leaves kicking and screaming by Thanksgiving; even a seventy-degree day in mid-December is not unheard of. But here in soggy, moss-covered Forks, the rain drizzles all year and the bitter winter arrives too soon and wears out its welcome.

When she unlocks the door and steps into the hallway, she is greeted by the voices of ESPN sports news anchors and her father's throaty snore. Dropping her purse by the door, she trudges her aching feet to the living room, covers Charlie with an afghan from the back of the couch, and turns off the blasting flatscreen TV. The fridge holds nothing that appeals to her nearly nonexistent appetite, so she settles for a glass of water and two extra-strength Tylenol instead.

Her weary body welcomes the cool sheets and lumpy mattress that await her in the tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs. Drained and listless, she kicks off her shoes, letting them thud on the floor at the end of the bed and allows sleep to overpower her. What's left of her makeup will be a greasy smear and her mouth will taste stale and vinegary in the morning, but in the moments before she's completely unconscious she cannot will herself to care.

The sunlight that filters through her off-white curtains isn't enough to wake her before the alarm on the nightstand begins to wail relentlessly. Her swollen eyes open as she is jolted from a nightmare that she knows was horrifying, but can't remember the details. Reluctantly, she slams the side of her fist on the snooze button. The green numbers read 6:42 a.m. and she realizes that apparently she's hit the snooze several times already.

"Shit," she mutters, crawling out of bed. She'll be late for work, and her boss, Cal, will be pissed when he's short-handed for the 7 a.m. breakfast crowd. Taking the cell phone from the pocket of the jeans that she was too tired to remove last night, she texts a message to her co-worker Jessica.

_Tell Cal I overslept…sorry. Be there before 8._

Before she flips the phone closed, the familiar date on the screen catches her eye and she smacks her forehead. It's Friday, September thirteenth…her birthday. She stumbles into the bathroom and stares at the sad, disheveled girl in the mirror. The creases from her pillowcase are tattooed on her cheek and yesterday's mascara is a crumbly, black mess around her eyes. She traces the two-inch, jagged line that snakes along her hairline on the right side of her head. She remembers how the doctors assured her the scars that now marred her body would eventually fade, but she can't help thinking they look like red ink on white paper against her milky complexion. Removing her t-shirt, she studies the unsightly marks on her left shoulder and down her arm. The stitches and bruises disappeared months ago, but these little beauties will remain for years to come, a permanent reminder of broken glass and twisted metal.

She tosses her wrinkled, food-stained clothes in the hamper and steps into the shower. She stands motionless under the stream of hot water for several minutes, waiting for the tension in her muscles to relax. When it does, she scrubs the greasy residue of the restaurant from her skin and hair and wonders if there's really a point to washing it off at all when she'll be returning to the sticky atmosphere in an hour anyway. Resignedly, she shuts off the faucet and wraps herself in a tattered towel. Once again she looks into the mirror, wiping just enough of the steam clouds from the glass to see her face.

"Happy birthday, Bella," she says to the girl staring back at her.


	2. Chapter 2: Double Shift

**Chapter Two: Double Shift**

"Swan, where the hell have you been?" Cal yells while carefully balancing a freshly lit cigarette between his thin lips. He leans out the backdoor of the diner, his yellowed, grease-spotted apron loosely tied under his beer gut.

"Sorry, I overslept. Won't happen again," a puffy-eyed Bella promises as she exits her red clunker of a truck and pulls her tangled hair into a sloppy ponytail.

His gravelly voice softens a bit as he blows a cloud of smoke from his mouth. "Well, the morning crowd's not too bad yet."

There is a hint of apology in his tone now that he regrets the initial harshness of his words. Bella Swan is the hardest working little waitress on his payroll, and scolding her for a rare lapse in punctuality seems out of line. He knows she'll more than make up for it by pulling a double without any complaints. Hell, if he didn't force her to take off Sundays she'd come trudging through the parking lot to meet the after-church lunch patrons as well. Bella pushes past him as he crushes the butt of his Marlboro on the wet concrete. She notices Jessica Stanley leaning over the sink in the back of the kitchen. She's popping her pink bubblegum and running her mouth on that stupid cell phone of hers when she thinks the boss is out of sight.

As she grabs an apron hanging from the rack in the kitchen, she hears Cal laying into Jess for chatting on her beloved Blackberry when she should be waiting tables. She shoves a notepad in the front pocket of her apron and tucks a dull pencil behind her ear. A blue-haired woman with glasses that sit on the tip of her nose beckons Bella over to her table. She peeps over the laminated menu, grinning at the sweet girl that's been waiting on her for the past few months.

"Good morning, Bella," the old lady beams, her wrinkled face sincere. "How are you today, dear?" She pats Bella's arm lovingly, her papery, translucent skin still cool from the crisp morning air.

There's something warm and endearing in the woman's crinkly gray eyes when she asks that question—a question that no one else seems to ask Bella anymore.

"I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Lucas." Bella manages to reciprocate a heartfelt smile to her favorite customer. "What can I get for you today?"

And although she is fairly certain that her order will be the usual bacon and toast with a side of strawberry jam, she listens intently and holds her pencil in the ready position over the notepad. The usual it is, but today Mrs. Lucas prefers a small glass of milk instead of orange juice because the citric acid is too much for her aged stomach to handle these days.

Bella laughs when the lady laughs and says, "No problem."

Mrs. Lucas has a grandmotherly quality that reminds her of home and childhood when Renee's mother was still alive. As insignificant as it may seem to anyone else, the old woman's warm smile is one of the miniscule comforts that catalyzes Bella's survival from one hour to the next.

She walks the familiar path to the front counter and gives Cal the order, then picks up a steaming pot of freshly-brewed regular in one hand and decaf in the other. Purposefully, her petite form meanders through the maze of occupied tables and chairs, pausing briefly at each empty cup before swiftly moving on to the next.

And so the day begins for Bella Swan…

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When the clock on the wall ticks to 7:01 p.m., Jessica glides to the door and flips the plastic sign so that the orange letters read CLOSED. Bella retrieves the mop and bucket from the closet and begins methodically dunking the frayed mop head in the sudsy, gray water and swabbing the beige linoleum in smooth, horizontal motions.

Jess languorously wipes down the tables and chairs, stopping every so often to pick at the chipped red polish on her nails. When her half-hearted task is complete, she sits in one of the plastic chairs and stares at her reticent co-worker for several minutes. Her mind wanders back to the first day she met the chief's daughter. She'd walked into Mr. Banner's senior biology class in the middle of March, just after spring break, and took a seat beside Mike Newton. Initially, Jessica had felt threatened by the quiet, dark-haired stranger. The boys had flocked to her immediately, fascinated by a new creature that had suddenly joined their world.

Twirling a piece of her curly hair around her finger, she reassures herself that she is, without a doubt, the more attractive of the two. Besides, who did Mike choose to spend the night with in a hotel after prom? _Damn sure wasn't Isabella Swan._

Bella finishes up her share of the cleaning duties and grabs her purse from underneath the counter. From across the room she can feel Jessica's judgmental eyes scrutinizing her every movement. It didn't take her long to figure out just what caliber person Miss Stanley really was when she first arrived at Forks High School. She's the kind of girl who pretends to be your best friend, then surreptitiously plots your social demise when you start receiving unwanted attention from her wannabe boyfriend. She doesn't need her anyway. All her real friends—the friends she should have marched with to _Pomp and Circumstance _on graduation day, the friends she should be starting college classes with this fall—are back home in Mississippi. She is alone. But alone will just have to do for now.

In the staff bathroom, Bella blots the excess oil from her face and reapplies a thin black line to each of her lids. The pale pink gloss she smears on her mouth does little to conceal the damage she's done to her chewed bottom lip. She removes the elastic band holding her ponytail and runs her fingers through the tousled locks in an ill-fated attempt to create some kind of volume. Standing back from the mirror, she examines her casual work attire: skinny jeans, black and white sneakers, and a faded t-shirt that somehow avoided spills today.

"As good as it gets," she mumbles in defeat. But she made up her mind during the lunch rush that she'd spend the night out doing whatever she wanted, in a different town, with different people—a little birthday indulgence. There is a nightclub in downtown Port Angeles, and it's decent enough as far as clubs go. She knows this because it's where Jessica and some of the other kids first invited her to hang out shortly after her arrival. But that was back before she finally gave up trying to regain some degree of normalcy again.

At a quarter til eight she and Jessica clock out. As Bella walks to her truck she sees Mike pull into the lot to pick up Jess. He rolls down the window of his shiny, new Tahoe—a graduation gift from Mommy and Daddy—and offers his usual gratuitous wave. Bella cannot help but smirk when she catches the jealous glare emanating from the passenger seat.

_Like I ever wanted that idiot anyway_, Bella rolls her eyes in disgust and climbs into the cab of her Chevy. Before she cranks the engine, she dials Charlie on her cell to tell him she's going to a movie and won't be home til late. She's too old to have to ask his permission, but she cringes when she thinks of how humiliating it would be to have the Forks PD and the FBI searching all over the Olympic Peninsula for her. Charlie's not much for stimulating conversation or emotional support—or even remembering birthdays, for that matter—but at least, he cares enough to worry that she might be "lying dead in a ditch somewhere."

Engine rattle and radio static are all that keep her company as she makes the hour-long drive east on the one-oh-one. It does not matter that she'll probably end up standing by herself in the corner of the club. It also does not matter that she'll be forced to wear one of those orange bracelets signifying she's underage. What does matter is that the few remaining hours of her nineteenth birthday are not spent listening to her father's snoring.


	3. Chapter 3: Welcome to Port Angeles

**Chapter Three: Welcome to Port Angeles**

When she finally sees the green sign that says _Welcome to Port Angeles_, she feels a sudden swell of anticipation filling her chest. Anticipation of what? She doesn't know, but it feels better than the dull ache of malaise that usually sets in this time of night. To avoid the embarrassment of a clumsy, unsuccessful attempt at parallel parking along the main street, she decides it best to park in the empty lot behind a row of buildings.

As she makes her way toward the bustling nightlife of downtown, a crisp breeze prickles her bare arms, and she immediately regrets leaving her jacket on the passenger seat. Wrapping her chilled arms tightly around her chest, she continues toward the fuzzy golden light of the streetlamps lining the sidewalks. In the distance she can see the moon-sparkled expanse of the waterfront and hear the cling-clang of bell buoys and the low moan of a foghorn. And although she is by herself in this cozy harbor town, the bits and pieces of conversation from passers-by and the occasional polite smile from a stranger, make her feel less alone. She browses the shop windows, making mental small talk with the mannequins on display, as she strolls toward the familiar purple and green neon sign of her destination.

"ID, please," mumbles the husky doorman, his voice monotone from repeating the same request all night.

Bella reaches into her pocket and flashes the man her driver's license. Husky scans the card for her birthdate and robotically fastens an orange paper bracelet around her wrist. The music—something between hip-hop and techno pop—blares so loudly that her ears instantly feel like they're stuffed with cotton. She safely loiters close to the wall, sensing the pulsing effect that the heavy bass is having on the room. Rainbow beams bounce off the walls and the bumping bodies on the dance floor. For several minutes, she watches them spin and sway to the frenetic rhythm, some far more skilled in their movements than others. She becomes so entranced by light and sound that she doesn't notice the figure stepping toward her until he's directly in front of her face.

"You sure do make a pretty wallflower," he remarks examining her from head to toe, his eyes pausing briefly to measure her chest.

Immediately, her stomach churns with nauseated repulsion at the advance of this alcohol-breathed creep. He leans into her, too close for her personal comfort. His dirty blonde hair is tied into a loose ponytail at the base of his head, and his eyes are so dark they're nearly black.

"Whatever," she rebuffs, rolling her eyes.

As she sidesteps him she can hear him mutter something that sounds like "bitch", but she pretends not to notice. "Asshole," she curses under her breath as she walks away.

Suddenly overwhelmed by claustrophobia, she scopes the room for the nearest exit and makes a beeline for the door. She rips the orange band off her wrist and tosses it to the ground outside. The cool night air relieves the heat that has reddened her face. She inhales slowly and feels her cluttered head begin to clear. The savory aroma of fresh seafood and Italian cuisine wafts through the open doors of the nearby restaurants and cafés, reminding her of her empty stomach. Glancing at her watch, she sees that it is already after ten, and most of the restaurants will be saying goodnight to their last remaining customers. She wanders further down the sidewalk, unwilling to return home after coming all this way, when she spots another bar across the street. It appears to be a bit more relaxed, certainly tamer than the previous. From the brick façade hangs a black metal sign with gold lettering that reads _Cullen's_.

The muted amber light that glows through the front window draws her inside. There is an old-fashioned charm about the place; it lacks the cold modernity of the nightclub across the street. To the left is a polished wood bar, and on the wall behind it are several rows of glass shelves. The mirrored backdrop reflects the gem-colored array of bottles that line each shelf—assorted shapes and sizes of sapphire, emerald, topaz, and onyx. In the back of the room is a small stage with a mic stand in the middle and two guitars leaned against the exposed brick.

Bella looks to the right for a vacant area and swiftly takes a seat at the round table in the corner. She watches the bartender as he silently fills the drink orders of the vampires seated in front of him. The cloudy haze of cigarette smoke makes it difficult to determine the details of his face, but she can tell that he's young—too old to be called a boy, too young to be a man. Just a guy, meticulous in his smooth motions of pouring, shaking, and mixing various concoctions.

A petite waitress with feathery, cropped hair sashays over to the table and beams a pearly smile at the unfamiliar girl that's just taken a seat.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks. "Our kitchen's closed for the night, but the bar's open til one."

The inky-haired waitress leans her dainty form closer to Bella, trying to get a better look at her face. The shadowy corner makes it tricky for her to estimate the girl's age. Bella realizes the waitress's scrutiny and wonders if the makeup and dim lighting help her look just old enough to bypass being carded. What would she order? A beer? She hasn't taken a drink since Jess's graduation party, and probably shouldn't tonight since she's got a long drive home. But her throat is parched, her mouth dry like sandpaper.

"Could I get a glass of water, please? No lemon."

"Sure thing." The pixie waitress gives a friendly wink and Bella catches a glimpse of her nametag. _Alice_.

Bella realizes her craving for something sweet, anything to get rid of the stale taste on her desiccated tongue. Just as Alice heads toward the bar to fill her order, Bella stops her.

"Could I maybe get some of those Maraschino cherries, too? I've got this weird craving for them." She grins sheepishly and hopes that her request does not seem as peculiar as it sounds.

"No problem," Alice says, playfully flipping her tiny hand. "I love those too."

Bella relaxes in her chair, feeling a bit more at ease now. The modest crowd of patrons in the room is not the least bit overwhelming. She closes her eyes momentarily to absorb the steady hum of friendly conversation that surrounds her. The gentle cadence is interrupted only by clinking ice or thudding footsteps here and there. She looks at the bar and sees Alice whispering in the young bartender's ear. When he glances in Bella's direction, she abruptly diverts her eyes to the floor. In the next minute, Alice waltzes over, carefully balancing a plastic tray on her palm. She sets a dripping glass of ice water in front of Bella, as well as a double-shot glass full of cherries.

"Enjoy!" she chimes.

Bella says "thank you", but Alice is already coasting to the next table.

She gulps the water greedily and welcomes the cold that soothes her dry mouth. Before the glass is half-empty, she remembers the juicy red Maraschinos sitting in front of her. One by one, she picks them up by the stem and pops them into her mouth, savoring the sugary goodness that bursts on her tongue. In the midst of her fructose rush, a twinge of sadness stings her eyes and a sudden wave of melancholy threatens to swallow her whole. It is the memory of Bella and her mother sharing an ice cream sundae—flashes of laughter and chocolate syrup mustaches—and the way Renee always let her have the cherry on top.

Movement on the stage rescues Bella from sinking any further into a miserable reverie. She eyes the young bartender stepping into plain sight, a barstool in one hand and a guitar in the other. A spotlight shines from the floor, illuminating his lean, yet muscular, form. He is tall—six feet, at least. His attire is casual, a navy blue t-shirt, dark jeans and black Converse sneakers. His short sleeves reveal the sinewy definition in his arms as he adjusts the mic stand to his liking. He runs a nervous hand through his untidy brown hair—or perhaps, it's auburn. She can't be certain in this lighting.

The distracted audience fails to take notice of him until they hear the tweaking of his guitar strings. More heads turn in attention when he clears his throat. But as for Bella Swan, she is captivated by him long before he croons the first verse…

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A/N: Just a quick note...I hope that you are enjoying my little work-in-progress here! If you are--or if you have suggestions/comments--PLEASE review! I'd welcome even a one-word review. Thanks :)


	4. Chapter 4: Seeking

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to my first reviewer/first story alert—LouderThanSirens. You rock!  
Sorry, there is some filler in this one, but Chapter 5 will be worth it, I promise! I'm already half-way through it so it will be posted in the next couple days. :)

**Chapter Four: Seeking**

The drive back to Forks lacks its usual tedium. The dashed lines of the one-oh-one quickly blend into a solid white streak, and the rain-soaked trees become a soggy, green blur in the periphery. Before she realizes it, she is sitting in Charlie's driveway. Midnight has come and gone. The living room couch is unoccupied. Apparently, Charlie's made it to his bedroom before dozing, mouth open wide, in front of the television. Delirious from exhaustion and highway hypnosis, Bella climbs the creaky stairs to her room and falls unconscious onto her unmade bed.

When 6 a.m. arrives, it is too soon. The offending wail of the alarm clock wrenches her from the peaceful coma that overtook her body just hours ago. If she dreamt, she cannot remember, but her newly-awakened mind now swirls with images of muted light, tousled hair, and guitar strings. Traces of a warm weighty voice still linger in her ear, though the lyrics are unclear. She'd paid no mind to the words flowing from his lips in the smoky, barroom darkness—just the dulcet tones and haunting melody that enraptured her soul. And she yearns to hear more…

When she climbs out of her rumpled bed and into the shower, she thanks God it's Saturday, the only day when she works a single shift. Seven to two, breakfast and lunch, no closing or cleanup. Before she leaves the house, she peeps through the crack of Charlie's door and finds his bed empty. She shuffles downstairs, purse and jacket in hand, to the kitchen. On the fridge is a yellow sticky note.

_Went fishing with Billy. Be back after lunch. –Dad. _

No surprise there. Before tossing the note in the garbage can, she takes one last look at her father's scrawled words. _–Dad_. She thinks of her mother and how she always gave her notes a slightly different ending. If this were Renee's handwriting, there would be a word in lieu of a dash.

_Love, Mom. Love, Dad. _

Love. It is a word that neither Bella nor Charlie says aloud. Renee said it frequently. As for Bella and Charlie, their father-daughter affection, however strained and muted it may be, is understood without it having to be verbally reaffirmed. At least, she _thinks _it exists in some form or another. She is too much like her father to be comfortable discussing such things, and she doesn't have time to mull it over now.

She takes a diet soda from the fridge and grabs her usual morning sustenance from the cabinet as she proceeds to the door. Feeling famished from skipping dinner the night before, she devours the two strawberry Pop-Tarts ravenously, accidently biting a piece of the foil wrapper in the process. She spots Mike's Tahoe in the lot behind the diner when she pulls in. He and Jess are lip-locked in the front seat, frantic in their little make out session as if they won't be reunited in a few hours anyway. Bella senses the fruity breakfast pastry making a return visit in her throat.

_Jesus, get a fucking room, why don't you_.

Bella glues her eyes to the pavement on her way to the back entrance. High school is over, but the town is still too damn small to escape the two most sickening people she's ever had the displeasure to meet.

In the kitchen, Cal is heating up the griddle. He offers a "Good morning" nod in her direction and continues prepping the kitchen for the early-bird-special crowd. Almost as soon as Bella is fully clad in her work attire—apron around waist, pencil behind ear, notepad in hand, forced smile on face—she hears the front door swing open with the first customer.

"Good morning, Mrs. Lucas," Bella greets the cheery old woman, replacing the forged smirk with a more authentic smile. Mrs. Lucas waves a feeble hand at her favorite waitress as she hobbles to the table.

"How are you on this early morning, sweetheart?"

"I'm good, and you?" Bella walks over, takes the lady's jacket and hangs it on the coat rack in the corner.

"As well as these old bones will let me be, I suppose," she beams, adjusting her glasses. She studies Bella's face momentarily. "Are you sure you're alright, dear? You look so tired."

Appreciative of Mrs. Lucas's thoughtful concern, she offers what she hopes is a convincing smile. "I haven't been getting much sleep lately, I guess."

"Well, I hope you get some rest soon, dear," she says, placing an arthritic hand on Bella's arm.

"I will, thank you," Bella reassures her. "So, will you be having the usual?"

"Yes, please," Mrs. Lucas nods, "with a glass of milk."

The door swings open with three more customers, reminding Bella that friendly conversation is short-lived here and more waitressing duties await her. She strides over to the group of caffeine-craving patrons seated at the counter.

"What can I get y'all?" she asks, not thinking, but corrects her dialectal gaffe at once. "I mean what would you all like?"

Jessica snickers beside her, snorting just loudly enough so that her co-worker is sure to hear. Bella knows what the little Homecoming Queen thinks about her, and she doesn't give a damn. Lauren Mallory, one of the bleached-blonde princesses in Jess's clique, had given Bella hell about her accent. Seething, she thinks back to the snide comments she passively endured in her last weeks at Forks High.

_Do they read and write where you come from, Isabella? Bet it's hard to get used to wearing shoes up here._

Her lip curls slightly at the recollection, but she suppresses the urge to smack Jessica Stanley's Maybelline-caked face with the glass coffee pot she holds in her hand. At least the fantasy of violently assaulting her two-faced co-worker is enough to sustain her until her shift is done.

When she arrives home that afternoon, Charlie is there, returned from his fishing trip as promised. She finds half of him hanging from the open refrigerator door, desperately searching the shelves for a beer.

"There's more in the garage," she tells him. Startled by her sudden presence, he conks his head on the inside of the fridge and curses.

"Thanks, Bells," he says and walks outside to retrieve a new six pack. When he returns, he happily pops the top on a fresh one and plops onto the dining chair by the window.

"Didn't hear you come in last night," he says scratching at the salt and pepper bristles on his chin. She remembers when his hair was completely black, but it seems to have grayed significantly in the last few months. "What movie did you see?"

"Huh?" Bella asks, initially puzzled by the question. Then she remembers checking in with Charlie after work and telling him she was heading to the movie theater in Port Angeles. She couldn't very well tell him she was going to a nightclub and then somehow ended up in a bar.

"In Port Angeles last night." He spins around in his chair to look at her standing over the sink as she scrubs last night's dishes. "Isn't that where you said you were going? Hell, I can't remember."

_Poor Charlie and his pathetic attempts at small talk_, she thinks as she towel dries the cups and plates.

"Yeah. It was just some chick flick."

He gulps the last of his beer and crushes the aluminum can. "It's been a long time since you went out. What brought that on?"

"Yesterday was my birthday, Dad. Guess I felt like celebrating," she replies flatly.

"Jesus, Bells, I'm sorry. I forgot," he admits apologetically.

"It's not a big deal, Dad. I promise." And it's not, really. She had not expected him to remember the precise date. She knew he would have eventually, and he did, albeit with a little reminder from the birthday girl herself.

"I could take you to dinner at the lodge, if you want," he offers.

She finishes drying the last plate and turns to face him. "Seriously, Dad, don't worry about it. I had fun on my own last night."

And she realizes that her statement, which was initially meant to satisfy and reassure him, is completely true. She hopes it is enough to save her from the lodge's all-you-can-eat buffet and a dinner of awkward silence. Although her little excursion had had a lackluster beginning, she did end up enjoying her time at the bar. _Cullen's_. The name on the sign flashes in her mind. And the voice…_God, that voice._

It is in that moment that Bella makes up her mind about how she will spend her Saturday night.

"I'll probably go back tonight. There are a lot of cool shops and restaurants I want to check out," she lies.

It's not that Charlie particularly cares what she does anymore. No curfews, no need for permission. Her father has never imposed many rules upon her. The only stipulation he's ever required is that she check in with him so he's knows that she is safe. This is not an unacceptable request; however, the badge-holding part of him might be staunchly opposed to his underage daughter spending time in a bar, so she won't take any chances there.

"Alright," he mumbles idly as he pops another top to swallow any guilt or regret about his forgetfulness that remains in his throat.

The makeup mirror on her desk reflects nothing out of the ordinary. Despite all the paint and powder, she can still see the chocolate-eyed, sallow plainness that lies beneath. She rifles through her closet, pushing aside one disappointing plastic hanger after another. Twenty-seven minutes later she settles for the outfit she started with—her best jeans and a plum V-neck blouse that covers just enough of what she doesn't want seen. Her espresso hair falls in waves around her shoulders, a safe curtain to hide behind if the situation should call for it.

On her way out the door, she says goodbye to the back of Charlie's head. And in the misty twilight she drives…seeking the evanescent peace she's discovered in the velvet voice of a barroom stranger.

**A/N: **My character Mrs. Lucas does serve a purpose; she's not just filler. You'll see! ; )


	5. Chapter 5: Never Think

**A/N: **SORRY this took so long to post--my laptop crashed, and I had to borrow my little brother's computer!  
This chapter was inspired by RPattz's song "Never Think" (swoon). Cheesy, I know, but I can't help loving it.  
From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU to all who have been so kind to review my story and add me to your story alert & favorites list!!!

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**Chapter Five: Never Think**

The sea salt air is inundated by the aromas of expensive European cuisine and gourmet coffee. Twenty-something starving artists wander the streetlamp-lined sidewalks searching for inspiration in the nightlife of the trendy harbor town. The locals stroll casually, deliberating on which restaurant is best for their Saturday evening dinner.

As she strides down the cracked concrete path to her destination, Bella pretends that she is a part of their friendly conversations and intermittent laughter. When she rounds the corner, she immediately recognizes the black and gold sign. Despite her long sleeves, chill bumps form on her arms. Are they a result of the September breeze or of the expectation of hearing the copper-haired crooner once more? She is uncertain. Maybe both.

A tawny glow swirled with cigarette clouds welcomes her at the entrance. She scopes the room and finds it full of draft-drinking locals and cocktail-sipping singles. To her right are the familiar round tables she recalls from her previous visit. They are occupied by casual dinner dates—a group of old friends here, a couple of romantic hopefuls there. But she's not particularly interested in that side of the room.

The back stage is quietly vacant, but the barstool that's placed behind the mic stand holds promise of a later performance. To her left is that classic polished wood bar backed with glass shelving and gem colored bottles.

And there He stands, mixing tonics and replenishing empty glasses.

Feigning nonchalance and self-assurance, she grips the purse strap on her shoulder and walks toward the bar. She takes a seat on the red leather barstool at the far end—the end opposite of where He stands, shaking a martini. From this angle he is less than fifteen feet away from her. But judging by the stoicism that shadows his perfect, stone-chiseled countenance, the distance between them might as well be fifteen miles. Suddenly she feels very foolish for ogling this handsome man-boy whose name remains unknown. Shifting her gaze elsewhere, she focuses on practicing her favorite hobby—observation.

Absentmindedly, she twirls a tendril of her hair and studies the line of patrons seated along the bar. She reads lips, analyzes body language, and fabricates a story for each one of them in her mind. Her mental movie narration begins:

_A chatty blonde with crimson lips pokes at the ice cubes in her drink, giggling too loudly at the unfunny utterances of the pinstripe suit beside her. An overconfident receding hairline makes pitiful attempts at flirting with the too-young-for-him brunette seated across from him. The forty-something redhead on the corner stool takes another cigarette from her purse and waits for Prince Charming to offer her a light…_

Then the theater projector skips, the screen goes blank, and the movie stops.

"What can I get you?" A new voice is to blame for the interruption.

Abruptly, she is snapped from her daze back into the barroom reality. Dark cotton sleeves pushed up at each elbow reveal the fair skin of his forearms resting on the countertop. She's caught off guard by the lanky form standing in front of her. The beauty of his face—all straight lines and eyebrows—peering directly at hers is enough to make her full heart lips speechless at first. She stumbles briefly before recovering a bit of her counterfeit confidence.

"Michelob Light," she orders coolly.

Her chest caves for a moment when he hesitates, his thick brows pulled together in scrutiny, but she does not divert her eyes.

"Well?" she says expectantly, shocked at her ability to maintain such composure under the weight of his breathtaking stare.

Saying nothing, he turns to fill her request. He twists off the metal cap and places the ice cold brown bottle on a napkin in front of her. His eyes meet hers once more before he walks away in response to the redhead beckoning his attention from the opposite corner. She leans over making sure to expose her freckled cleavage for him.

"Can I get another one of these, cutie?" Red winks at him and rattles the remaining ice in her glass.

As if totally oblivious of Red's pitiful advances, he dutifully refills her beverage and moves on to the next order. Bella raises her hand to shield the grin that is playing at the corners of her mouth. In silent amusement, she wonders if she has just caught a glimpse of Jessica Stanley's future.

Before taking her first swallow of the frothy beverage, she wraps her hand around the neck of the bottle—the place where _his_ hand had been only a minute before. She slowly upturns the bottle and takes a mouthful. The cold, crisp bitterness bathes her tongue and conjures memories of southern nights, gravel roads, and packed coolers. With every sip, she replays images of typical weekend behavior—cheap beer, fruity vodka, loud music, and teenage laughter. But before the twinge of homesickness escalates into something worse, she is distracted by movement.

Looking up she realizes that He has been replaced by the lithe frame of a tiny, feather-haired girl. Bella recognizes her immediately. _Alice_.

"Maraschino girl!" Alice's ebullient voice chimes. "Nice to see you back so soon."

Her face is lovely, to say the least. Golden eyes and small feminine features.

"Hi," is all Bella can manage to say to the friendly pixie-like waitress. She hopes a friendly smile will make up for her lack of verbalization.

"Can I get you another?" Alice asks pointing to the near-empty beer in Bella's hand.

Bella shakes her head, "No, thanks. I'm good."

"Okay, just let me know," Alice winks. She continues gliding gracefully from one end of the bar to the other, taking friendly chatter and two pitchers of amber liquid with her.

Bella gulps the last of her beer and scans the long, narrow expanse of the room. And there He is, settling on the barstool with his guitar in hand. Others in the audience take notice as he begins picking the first notes of his soulful song story. She watches him, wondering what it would be like to be the strings he is strumming with those long capable fingers.

Her hands unconsciously grip tighter on the bottle, her teeth scrape against her bottom lip, as she eagerly awaits the words to come.

Muted light and thickened air. Sloshing liquid and clinking ice. Hushed whispers and shifting bodies.

From the moment the lyrics stream from his mouth, she is the _only_ one in the room with him. She drinks it in, absorbing one verse after another, as if each word is meant for her alone. Love and mistakes and soul salvation. But she feels as if she already is too far gone, and there is nothing--aboslutely _nothing--_that can be done. Tears sting her eyes but are stifled by the pain of teeth grinding further into her lip. The fuzzy warmth that suddenly engulfs her body is no consequence of the beer in her hand. One is not enough to have such an effect. The cause is something else entirely.

It's the velvet in his voice—the way the smooth line of his lips forms each word—that lulls her mind and body into this inebriated state. A tingling sensation overpowers her body. It is like fingertips stroking the soft skin on the inside of her arm and tickling the back of her neck. Somehow this singing stranger has reached these places, so sensitive but seldom touched, from across the room.

The silken lilt flowing from his flawless lips envelopes her…soothes her…rocks her gently back and forth…until the tingly sensation fades into numbness.

_Numb_. Like Novocain.

He continues to sing—more songs, more anesthesia—for what seems like hours. And when his performance is played out, the lack of feeling lingers…

"Wake up," a bell voice jingles and a hand waves in front of her face.

Bella blinks and sees Alice leaning on the counter in front of her. She blushes at the realization of how ridiculous she must appear, in a wide-eyed reverie with her mouth half open. The bar and its inhabitants have resumed normal motion, and no one else seems to have noticed her entranced state.

Nervously, Bella laughs. "Sorry, I guess I sort of spaced out for a minute," she says.

"Well, I didn't want you to fall off that barstool." Alice's wind chime giggle makes Bella laugh more. "I'm Alice Cullen, by the way," she says sweetly and reaches out her hand to shake Bella's.

"Bella Swan," she returns, marveling at the softness of her tiny hand. She decides this is an ideal opportunity to learn the bartender's identity. "Who is _he_?" she asks nodding her head toward the stage.

Alice peers over her shoulder in the direction indicated. "Oh, that's my cousin, Edward," she responds.

"He's amazing," Bella says, not taking her eyes off the stage where he is rearranging the guitar and mic.

"Yeah, he's pretty good," Alice agrees. "See that guy over there," she says pointing to a man standing by the door. "That's my dad, Carlisle."

The man's appearance is striking, like a classic Hollywood actor from decades ago. Creamy complexion and golden hair. Judging by Alice's age—she can be no younger than twenty-one or so—her father must be in his early forties, at least. Nonetheless, he is handsome and wears his age with grace.

"This is his place," she explains. "He lets Edward perform on nights when we have no other bookings."

Carlisle walks through the now thinning crowd of customers to the stage. He smiles and puts his arm around the newly named Edward. As he embraces his nephew he mutters something close to his ear—a compliment, perhaps—and Edward reciprocates a warm smile. From witnessing their interaction, Bella senses a close bond between the two. They seem less like uncle and nephew, more like father and son.

"So what brings you here two nights in a row, Bella?" Alice inquires as she swipes a dishcloth along the length of the countertop.

Bella turns her focus away from the two men of interest and answers her question. "I don't know. I found this place by accident last night," she explains. "The atmosphere here…it's different. I like it."

A delighted grin sweeps across Alice's face. "I'll be sure to pass along the compliment to my dad."

Before Alice and Bella's conversation can continue further, Edward steps behind the bar. Bella's breath hitches in her throat for an instant at the sight of him so close again. When he runs his fingers through his untidy bronze locks, the numbness of her skin awakens to tingles again. Yawning, he moves alongside Alice and takes over collecting tabs and empty glassware.

"Hey, Edward," Alice greets as she gives a playful jab to her cousin's arm. "Have you met my new friend, Bella?" she asks motioning toward a now pink-cheeked Bella.

With a cursory glance he gives a flat response. "Sort of."

There is no hint of interest detectable in his voice and no sign of a polite smile on his solemn face.

"I've got it from here, Alice," he tells her, making it very clear that he has no intention of further acknowledging Bella's presence.

_If being friendly runs in the Cullen family, this one missed the gene_. Bella rolls her eyes and rises from the barstool.

"Thanks, I've got to help the other girl clear tables," she says and turns to face Bella once more. "It was nice meeting you, Bella." Her smile is all pearls, genuine and luminescent.

"Nice meeting you too," Bella smiles at her congenial new acquaintance.

"I hope I see you here again. We've got a wicked awesome band playing next weekend. You should stop by."

"Definitely," Bella nods and reaches for her purse. "I'll have to check it out."

"Great! Good night, Bella." Alice flutters her dainty fingers in a goodbye wave.

"Night, Alice," Bella replies, but Alice is already dancing to the other side of the room to carry on with her chores.

Dipping into her purse, she finds her wallet. She fishes out the right amount of cash, tip included, and lays it on the bar. She doesn't wait for a "thank you" from the bartender because she figures it won't be said.

_Never should have thought his personality could match that voice_, she thinks to herself as she heads for the door.

And the dull ache of life returns too soon as she steps into the cool air of Port Angeles midnight.

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**A/N: **One last thing…if you haven't checked out LouderThanSiren's story Dismantle &Repair, then WTF are you waiting for? If you're looking for something original, dark & edgy, I highly recommend it!  
Reviews make me super happy, so PLEASE review! :-)


	6. Chapter 6: Drowning

**A/N: **This is a quick transitional chapter, but fear not! We're getting to the good stuff. I hope chapter seven knocks your socks off; I'm working diligently on it right now. Also, I've posted a playlist for Olympic Rain on my profile if you care to take a look. Happy reading!

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**Chapter Six: Drowning**

Thursday. Two-thirds of another week almost gone. The hours…the days…the weeks…dissipate into the misty Forks air that surrounds her. Bella Swan's existence is a robotic routine of wake, sleep and work—with the exception of the two nights she spent in Port Angeles last weekend. Nothing in her memory can compare to the anesthetized state she discovered in that brief time. Not even the combination of pills and IV drips of the emergency room can rival it. But now she fears her newfound medication may be in short supply. She doesn't know when the next dosage will be available, and even then she is uncertain if she'll be able to return for another session. Not after being disillusioned by the frigid gust of his reaction toward her in the bar—such a sharp contrast to the warm blanket of his voice that had consoled her from the stage.

But really, what did she expect? It was nothing more than a simple introduction. Maybe he's shy. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he's an asshole completely lacking in social skills. Or maybe, she is analyzing this thing way too fucking much. It is most likely the latter, or a screwed up cocktail of all the aforementioned possibilities.

Even Jessica had reached out her hand in a polite gesture on their first encounter and said, "Nice to meet you, Bella." Although her supposed sweetness turned out to be as artificial as that of the pink packets placed on each of the diner's tabletops, at least she'd had the decency to feign proper etiquette. Was that too much to ask for?

"Hey, waitress!" A gruff summons shouted from across the room startles her at first. "You think you could find the time to get me a refill?"

She blinks several times in an attempt to erase the miscellany of thoughts that are cluttering her brain. A husky gray beard is seated at the table by the front window—the table that normally belongs to someone else this time of morning. But _she's_ not here and hasn't been since Monday, and Bella can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

With a steaming pot of regular in her hand, she ambles toward the unsatisfied customer. As she tops off his coffee mug, he grumbles some remark about hoping it's not too much trouble for her. She briefly considers pouring the scalding liquid onto his crotch, but it'd probably miss the target for his oversized, plaid button-up belly.

Seeking information, she passes through the swinging kitchen door and finds Cal mindlessly frying eggs on the griddle. He glances up from the greasy heated metal and sees her standing in the doorway with a question on her face.

"Yeah, Swan?" He wrinkles his forehead in his usual don't-bother-me-right-now scowl.

"I was just wondering if you knew where Mrs. Lucas was," she inquires hopefully.

He scratches his balding head and shoots her a puzzled expression. "Mrs. Who?"

"Mrs. Lucas," she states again, enunciating the words. "The older lady that eats breakfast here every morning?"

"Oh," he says, recognizing the name in question. "Nope, no idea. Why?"

Bella shakes her head discontentedly. "This is the third day she's missed coming here. It's not like her."

"Sorry, can't help ya," he smirks with a raised spatula in his hand.

She pushes through the swinging door that leads back to the other side of Hell and rings up the accumulation of customers. Jess returns to the front counter carrying a serving tray of dirty dishes with her. Bella reluctantly decides to ask her bubblegum-popping partner for help. Stanley's lived in this town her whole life; she ought to know _something_.

"Jess, do you know why Mrs. Lucas hasn't been here lately?"

She rearranges her curly hair into a ponytail and cocks a quizzical, tweezed brow at Bella. "Why would _I _know anything about that old woman?"

Bella glares daggers at the sarcastic smirk on her face. "I just thought you might have heard something. I hope she's not sick."

"I don't know why you care so much. It's not like she's that good of a tipper anyways."

If looks could kill, Jessica Stanley would be a smoking pile of ash in the middle of the linoleum floor. And Bella would sweep up her charred remains gladly and dump them into the garbage bin out back, smiling all the while. That image, however sadistic and unhealthy it may seem, is enough to carry Bella through the rest of her long, dejected day.

***

When she arrives home, she finds Charlie in the kitchen fumbling with the buttons on the microwave. TV dinners and delivery pizzas are the closest he comes to a homemade meal in this house. Bella refuses to cook. Domestic meal preparation is not in her repertoire of skills, and even if it was, standing over the stove would be the very last thing she'd do after a workday.

"Hey Bells," her father mumbles as he concentrates on removing the film covering the plastic dinner tray.

Responding with a nod, she joins him at the counter and begins making a turkey sandwich. He grabs a fork from the drawer and a cold one from the fridge before taking a seat at the dining table. Bella busies herself spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread and arranging the turkey and cheese in the order she prefers. She doesn't notice her father's doleful eyes studying her every movement.

Her dark hair and brown eyes are all his, but the rest of her—the heart shape of her face and lips, her nose, the way she carries herself—is all Renee. The sight of his daughter, once estranged by physical distance and now only by an emotional divide, is nearly unbearable. In the time that she is standing by the counter, she is Renee. Salt and lemon juice douse the raw void of his chest. She had left him. Twice. Only _he_ remembers the first time, with all its angry hurt and frustration. Her second departure, however, remains fresh in the minds of both of them. The thought of it makes Charlie long for something stronger than the beer in front of him.

Bella sits across from him, and together they eat for several minutes without a word between them. When the blended harmony of their chewing becomes unnerving, Charlie breaks the silence.

"Boy, I had a hell of a day today," he says pushing himself away from the table and propping his hands on his distended stomach.

"Oh yeah?" she replies absentmindedly, crumbling a piece of bread crust onto her paper plate.

"Got called to the Lucas widow's house this morning," he begins.

Bella's head snaps up, her full attention triggered by the familiar name. "What happened?" she urges him on.

"A neighbor called the station—said she was worried because she hadn't seen Mrs. Lucas leave her house in days. She tried knocking on the door, but no one would answer. Of course, it was locked, so I went out there to pry the door open," he explains and then pauses to take the final swig of his beer.

Impatiently, Bella leans forward and raises her voice at him. "So what happened? Did you get inside?"

A puzzled expression creases Charlie's forehead at her sudden keen interest in his story. "Yeah, I got inside. I went all over the house calling for her. Found her dead in her room," he continues. He shakes his head pitifully. "Poor woman was still in her bed."

The blood drains from Bella's face, and her already pallid complexion becomes even more colorless. She stares at him, mouth agape, disbelieving the horrible words her father's just spoken. It takes every ounce of her effort in that moment to swallow down the knot forming in her throat.

"I'm going to my room." Abruptly, she scoots the chair back and hops to her feet. Ignoring her leftover dinner mess—which she never does—she pads up the stairs. When the door behind her is shut and locked, she sinks slowly to the carpet and sits there motionless like a melted heap of misery. Charlie's words resound in her throbbing head.

_Found her dead_…

Dead. It's a word she hates worse than any other word in the entire English language. The sound of it, so harsh and heavy. The beginning and ending consonant sounds hang briefly in the air before dropping like a cinder block to the ground.

_Mrs. Lucas is dead. My mother is dead. Eventually, everyone will be dead._

Against her will, the knot in her throat returns and moisture pricks the corners of her eyes like tiny needles. Grief—an emotion she knows all too well by now—floods her body and threatens to break down the dam she's been constructing for nearly seven months. But she won't allow it. Stack the sandbags. Move to higher ground. If the levee is breached now there will be no hope for her, and she refuses to drown.

_Don't cry. Don't you dare fucking cry!_

All of it is maddening—this town, this house, her tiny shoebox of a bedroom, Charlie and his damned blaring television. She needs to escape, needs to find her fix, needs the Novocain in his voice to assuage this overwhelming pain. Odds are he's not playing on a Thursday night, but the pursuit of it alone may be enough to temper the sting of loss and loneliness tonight.

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**A/N: **So, like it/love it/hate it? Have any favorite lines so far? Give me your thoughts b/c review alerts make my school inbox happy. Don't forget to check out the latest chapter of **LouderThanSirens'** story Dismantle, Repair—devilishly good at writing juicy angst, she is!


	7. Chapter 7: Saving Grace

**A/N: **Warning—this chapter contains scenes of violence & coarse language. If you find such things offensive, then stop reading now. For those of you who choose to continue, hold onto your socks b/c the action starts here!!!

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**Chapter Seven: Saving Grace**

A sullen and somber Bella wanders the gray maze of concrete that paves the grid of sleepy midweek Port Angeles. "Hello, again," she mutters to the shop window mannequins, earlier acquaintances from past visits. They don't have much to say tonight and neither do the few locals meandering along the sidewalks. No friendly passing conversation, no polite smiles, no laughter. Most of the restaurants and stores are closing for the night, but it does not matter. She has already eaten dinner, and she's never been the type to enjoy browsing racks and aisles of expensive nonessentials.

It doesn't take her long to get where she is going. The red brick façade, the black and gold sign, and the inviting amber glow are quickly within sight. Her feet know the way automatically now, but she cannot will them to take her through the door once she arrives. Standing outside, she peers through the glass panes at the small group of patrons. It is no comparison to the lively crowd that filled the barstools and chairs on Saturday night. The golden-haired man, Carlisle, stands behind the bar casually conversing with an older gentleman. On the opposite side of the room, Alice and another girl wait tables and collect dirty dishware. The back stage is bare—no sign of her chanting bartender. She feels pathetic for even stopping by to check.

A bay breeze blows, causing her to pull the jacket tighter around her slender body. Her pursuit is over, and just as she feared, she's come up empty handed. As she walks away, the memories she's been fighting all night start flooding back with a vengeance. Like a projection screen in a movie theater, images of Renee and Mrs. Lucas flicker repeatedly—a jumble of pictures and sound moving in slow motion. Warm smiles, care-filled eyes, words of comfort…over and over.

Loss. She's lost everything—her family, her friends, her home…and her sanity, she suspects, is not far behind. Tears of sorrow and anger sting her eyes until her vision is blurred. In an attempt to stifle them, she holds her head back as she walks, letting them seep into her tear ducts. She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her jacket and sniffs back the moisture.

_Breathe, Bella. Don't start this now._

When a cold drop falls on her cheek, she fears her emotions have finally won the battle. As she reaches up her hand to wipe it away, another drop takes its place. One, two, three, four drops…then more. And down comes the rain with a faint rumble of thunder in the distance. She curses the light cotton jacket she's wearing, wishing it was a raincoat instead. Much to her relief, the parking lot is only a few blocks away.

Her pace quickens as the rain picks up, the bottom ready to fall out of the starless sky at any minute. The sprinkles quickly become a shower, and the shower soon gives way to a downpour. Puddles form on the cracked pavement as she hurriedly splashes her way through the darkened alley that leads to the lot.

By the time she reaches her truck, she is thoroughly soaked and feeling more dejected than when she arrived. A single security light casts a dim yellow beam on the near-empty parking lot. As she dips into her pocket for her keys, she glances at the few other vehicles parked around her—a shabby Toyota, a flat-tire Ford, and a shiny silver Volvo that looks out of place among the aged, dented scraps that surround it. As water falls in torrents from the midnight sky, she fumbles to get a handle on the slippery keys. The truck door is a hassle to unlock, and the sheeting rain and poor lighting do nothing to help matters. As she struggles to give the rusty door another try, the keys slip from her frustrated fingers and fall to the ground.

Before she can retrieve them, a foreign hand covers her unsuspecting mouth and an iron grasp forms around her torso. The stone form behind her drags a stunned Bella from the parking lot and into the darkened alley. Her brain cannot immediately process what is happening. It is a surreal storm of fast and slow motions, all simultaneous and terrifying. But it must be a hallucination.

_No way in hell can this be happening to me_.

A raspy male voice hisses a warning in her ear. "Don't make a fucking sound," it says, and she cannot help but obey.

She hasn't the breath to scream, and even if she did, the metal hand pressing against her mouth wouldn't allow it to escape anyway. Her teeth and gums hurt from the force of it. Spinning her around, he slams her back into one of the brick walls that forms the alleyway. All of his weight is bearing down on her, pinning her against the brick. His arm holds firmly to her chest, his hand still clasped to her mouth. Struggling like a helpless trapped animal, she makes an ill-fated attempt to break free.

"Don't move or I'll slice your fucking throat right here. Do you understand?" He hisses again, and she realizes the cold metal blade being brandished at her neck. She nods understandingly.

The hazy beam of light that filters in from the lot allows her to make out some of her attacker's features. Dirty blonde ponytail , wild black eyes, and the smell of alcohol on his breath. And she remembers…

_You sure do make a pretty wallflower_.

Her heart pumps with such force that she can hear it pounding in her ears. Fear and adrenaline surge through her veins as her mind races with fight-or-flight plans. She tries to raise her knee to his groin, but it's no use. He leans so heavily upon her, making it impossible to manage the maneuver. Using his knife-free hand, he pulls her jacket open to the shirt underneath. Like a vicious beast, he rips the fabric as if it were nothing more than tissue paper.

"Very nice," he whispers, ogling her exposed bra and bare stomach. A flash of their first encounter enters her memory—the way his black eyes had measured her chest and undressed her body right there in the nightclub. The thought makes her nauseous.

His dirty hand travels downward and begins tugging at the button of her jeans. Her stomach twists in knots at the realization of his libidinous intentions.

_Dear God, please. No, no, no. This is not real. Dammit, Bella, think of something!_

Then he unexpectedly crushes his mouth to hers, his breath hot and sour. When his disgusting tongue darts past her lips, she instinctively bites down as hard as she possibly can. The taste of his blood fills her mouth, making her cringe. Pulling back abruptly, he cries out in pain.

"Fucking bitch!" His shouted words ricochet off the walls.

Bella seizes the opportunity and pushes past her distracted attacker. Before she can make much progress in escaping, he knocks her to the ground. Now he's enraged, glowering down at her with the knife clutched even tighter in his hand. Raising her arms as a desperate shield, she braces herself for the worst…but it does not come. Suddenly, there is another voice.

"Get away from her!" it growls from the shadows.

The assailant is caught off-guard. He spins around, just as shocked as Bella is to see another figure lunging at him from the shadows. With newfound energy, Bella scrambles to her feet and takes off running through the alley. She aims for the light shining from the lot, but her stumbling feet fail her. Her palms and knees bear the brunt as she crash-lands on the wet pavement. Unable to lift herself from the ground, she turns to see the fierce struggle developing behind her.

She watches a frenzy of shadowed arms flailing wildly. She hears grunts and groans and the sound of punches being thrown in the darkness. She cannot imagine who this mysterious saving grace is, but he's beating the shit out of Wallflower Guy—and he's winning. The tall figure hurls another fist at her attacker's head but loses his footing momentarily. The bruised and bloodied assailant takes advantage, gathers whatever energy that's left in him, and makes a hurried dash into the black rain.

At first, the lanky figure appears as if he will pursue the fleeing criminal, but he halts himself suddenly and turns to face her. Bella rises to her knees to get a better look at her rescuer, but stops when she sees him making a frantic stride in her direction. When he kneels beside her, his appearance is no longer obscured. The dim light reveals drenched bronze locks and the pale, chiseled features of a familiar face.

_Edward.__

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_

**A/N: **OMG it took all of my energy to write this one! *Sigh of relief* Hope you enjoyed that; I'm mean for leaving you with a cliffhanger, I know. I ended up splitting this into two chapters b/c as you can probably tell by now, I like telling my story in short "bursts". And, yes, the attacker is the evil, notorious James. Again, thanks so much for the reviews & story alerts. You guys rock! :)


	8. Chapter 8: Green Eyes On Fire

**A/N: **This took much longer to complete than I had intended. Apparently, my college professors this semester think that homework & pop quizzes are more important than exploring creativity. I'm very excited to get some feedback on this one—my favorite to write so far!

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**Chapter Eight: Green Eyes On Fire**

"Are you okay?" Edward asks anxiously through panting breaths.

A look of recognition flashes through his worried green eyes once he realizes the identity of the trembling girl beside him. Raindrops cascade down the straight line of his nose as he leans in closer to study her frightened face.

Breathless and shaking uncontrollably, Bella rediscovers her voice. "I th-think s-so," she stammers.

"Can you stand?" He scans over her quivering form, trying to ascertain her condition.

She nods, unsure if it's the truth, but before she can attempt getting to her feet, he scoops her up into his arms effortlessly and carries her through the alley. Thankful for his support, she clings to his sodden shirt and clenches her eyes shut to refocus her reeling head. He carries her through the pouring rain to a red brick building across the parking lot.

"My apartment's just over here," he says softly. She nods against his chest, permitting him to move forward.

He pushes through a side door of the building to a dimly lit entryway and begins climbing a flight of stairs. Feeling guilty for having him haul her around like a heavy piece of luggage, she begins to protest.

"I can walk now. You don't have to…" she starts, but he ignores her and continues up the stairs. It feels oddly comforting being in this stranger's arms, sensing the rise and fall of his chest and the accelerated rhythm of his heart. She tries to concentrate on the sensation of it—of being held by another person—but the whole experience is too surreal for her to gain full control of her perceptions.

The stairwell is filled with the echo of his heavy footsteps and the sound of her trembling breath. Before long they reach the top and come to another door. He carefully places her on her unsteady feet but keeps his hand near her arm just in case. The quiet building seems to be vacant, but the darkness prevents her from absorbing the details of the unfamiliar atmosphere.

"You're Alice's friend from the bar," he says blankly. He remains expressionless, never making eye contact, as he opens the door and steps inside. Bella follows timidly behind him.

"Yes," she responds. "Bella Swan." When he says nothing else, she continues. "You're Edward?" she asks, already well aware of the answer but hating the awkward silence that hangs between them.

He nods mechanically and flips the light switch above the counter. Bella quickly scopes the expanse of the room. The overhead fluorescents illuminate the open space of the loft apartment—exposed brick and hardwood floors, except for the dark slate of the kitchen. A black leather sofa and glass coffee table designates the living area; the wall behind it holds several rows of shelves topped with various books and a high-end stereo system. To the far left is a double bed with matching nightstand and dresser that comprise the bedroom. The simple white linens are unmade and the pillows are scattered about—the imprint of a restless occupant from the previous night. The soft glow of a freestanding lamp in the opposite corner reveals the most magnificent furnishing in the entire dwelling—a beautiful, black baby grand piano.

All of a sudden the bright light reminds Bella of her unsightly appearance. Her face reddens with self-consciousness, and she pulls the heavily dampened jacket tighter around her exposed torso. The last thing she wants Edward to see is her scarred, bare skin. A shivered breath passes through her lips, and he glances over at her rain-soaked body. Sensing her obvious discomfort, he swiftly diverts his eyes to the floor and clears his throat nervously.

"You're welcome to use my bathroom if you want," he offers, pointing to another door across the room. "There are clean towels on the shelf by the shower."

"Thanks," she says gratefully and nearly sprints toward the bathroom, desperate for a few private minutes. Once she's safely behind the closed door, she allows herself to collapse onto the white tile floor. Hugging her knees firmly to her chest, she inhales deeply and releases slowly several times.

_One. Two. Three. Calm. You're alive, Bella. Keep it together._

By the time she reaches the count of twenty, she wills herself to stand. The small mirror above the sink reveals something that resembles a drowned cat. Blood that is not hers remains on her swollen lips. She leans over the sink, gagging and frantically swishing her mouth with water. She grabs a towel from the shelf and scrubs away any trace of the despicable fiend, and although sickened by the taste of his blood, a feeling of pride swells within her. _He_ is the one who left that alley bleeding tonight…_not _her.

Glancing at the tile floor she sees that her soaked hair and clothes have formed tiny puddles. She towel dries her tangled locks and peels off her jacket. Examining her bare skin closely in the light, she gasps at the marks underneath the torn remnants of her shirt. Red streaks mar her chest and neck where he'd clawed and scratched at her like some kind of depraved animal. She prays that she can find some way of concealing them later, perhaps with makeup or a sweater; Charlie would surely flip his lid if he ever finds out. The popped button of her jeans sends a chill down her spine as she is reminded of what _could have_ happened had it not been for…

A sudden knock on the bathroom door causes her to jump, her nerves still frayed and on edge.

"Are you alright in there?" Edward asks, a tinge of worry in his low voice.

She clears her throat, wondering how long she's been putting herself back together. "I'm fine," she answers in what she hopes is a convincing tone.

"I brought you a shirt," he says.

Wrapping the towel securely around her, she hesitantly cracks the door to see Edward—dressed in dry clothes, his hair still damp. His uneasy eyes meet hers momentarily before shifting downward again.

"Here," he says, offering her a folded gray t-shirt through the crack. "You can borrow one of mine."

"Thank you." She smiles gratefully and eagerly accepts the dry cotton from his hand. As soon as the door is closed again she tosses the tattered ruins of her shirt into the garbage can by the sink. Before putting on his shirt she pauses and brings the fabric to her nose, inhaling the scent of him. Fabric softener and the faintest hint of cigarettes. She had noticed it as he was carrying her earlier. Relieved by his generosity, she pulls it over her head and grins at the way it hangs too loosely on her slender frame.

Now dressed and finally recomposed, she picks up the towel and slowly emerges from the bathroom. She spots Edward standing over the kitchen sink filling a plastic bag with ice. When she nears him she sees that he is nursing a swollen, red right hook.

"That doesn't look so good," she speaks, feeling guilty for having caused him so much trouble.

He sets the bag on the granite countertop and turns to face her with a look of concern furrowing his thick brows. He approaches her cautiously, gradually closing the gap between them. Very carefully, he takes her arm and examines the fresh bruises forming on her pallid skin. His full lips form a hard line, and for an instant, he looks angered.

He sucks in a jagged breath and grumbles, "I should've ripped that son-of-a-bitch's head off."

_God, if he thinks a few scrapes and bruises are bad…_ Bella thinks of the scars on her upper arm and shoulder, hidden from his sight. Remembering the one on her forehead, she quickly reaches up her hand to pull a piece of her wet hair in front of her face—not that it'll do much good.

"I thought you did a pretty good job of trying." She manages a meek smile, but his agitated expression does not change.

He takes the towel from her hand and studies her mascara-blackened eyes. "May I?" he asks softly.

She gazes up at him confused, not exactly sure what he's requesting permission to do, but she gives it, nonetheless. He carefully raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Taking the soft but still damp towel in his other hand, he begins wiping the rain-ruined mascara from beneath each of her eyes with slow, gentle motions. She stands there unmoving and allows him to continue his work to correct her raccoon-eyed appearance.

"You know," he sighs, still blotting away the black, "you really don't need all this junk on your face."

His words surprise her. They sound something like a compliment, but she's unsure and says nothing. For several seconds, she continues to stand there focusing on his enigmatic green eyes which are fringed by a row of long, thick lashes. When his ministrations are complete, he backs away, and another awkward bout of silence fills the space between them.

"Oh shit!" she blurts, suddenly remembering her keys and praying that they are still in the parking lot.

"What?" Anxiety flashes in his eyes once more.

"My keys. I dropped them beside my truck."

"I'll get them," he says calmly, setting the balled up towel on the counter.

"No, I can get them. You've done enough already."

He holds out his hand to stop her. "I'm not going to let you go back out there alone. Especially not with that asshole still lurking around," he insists.

She protests no further and describes her red Chevy—not that he could possibly miss it. He nods, grabs a raincoat from a hook on the wall and leaves. She relaxes a bit as soon as he is gone and examines the surroundings once more.

It is what any twenty-something bachelor would love to have—an expensively furnished downtown loft—but there is a heavy sense of melancholy and loneliness that permeates the air. The beautiful Steinway in the corner catches Bella's eye again, and she walks toward it slowly. She glides her fingertips lightly over the instrument, marveling at the glossy, black wood finish. Her curious fingers twitch to play just one note, to glide swiftly from one end of the ivory keys to the other. She imagines Edward sitting on the bench, hands poised over the keys, playing one melodious piece after another—perhaps composing some of his own. She wonders how many songs he knows by heart and which ones are his favorites.

His quick return surprises her, and she steps back from the piano nervously. He casts a questioning glance in her direction, and for a moment, she feels like a child who's been caught meddling. He strides over to her and pulls the ring of keys from the pocket of his raincoat.

"Yours?" he asks, dangling the keys in front of her.

"Oh, thank God!" A relieved grin spreads across her lips as she happily accepts the keys from his outstretched hand.

"The rain has stopped," he comments, shrugging out of his raincoat and replacing it on the hook. He picks up the forgotten bag of ice from the kitchen counter and moves to the living area where he takes a seat on the leather sofa. He winces slightly as he clutches the bag of ice to his injured hand.

He turns to Bella and motions toward the opposite end of the sofa. "You can sit down."

"I'm sorry you got hurt," she apologizes, taking a seat beside him.

"I've had worse." He shrugs and flexes his fingers to assess the damage. Much to Bella's relief, nothing appears to be broken. "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to report this to the police—let them know that guy's still out there."

"No! That would _not _be a good idea. Please don't," Bella implores. Tension returns to her face as she thinks of Charlie and his likely reaction to this whole situation. "My dad will go berserk. I really don't need that right now."

He holds up his uninjured hand to calm her. "Okay, no problem. We won't call the police."

Relaxing once more, she leans forward and rests her head in her hands. The adrenaline rush has almost completely subsided and exhaustion is taking its place.

"What time is it?" she asks wearily.

Checking his watch, he answers, "Almost two a.m."

"Ugh, great," she mutters into her palms. "I'm going to be a total zombie at work all day."

It will take her an hour to get home and who knows how long to actually fall asleep—if sleep is even possible at this point. The greasy little restaurant will be expecting her presence in five hours. She considers all of the excuses she could offer Cal for taking the day off, but what would she do at the house alone all day? Without nagging customers and annoying coworkers to fill the hours, she'll have too much time to think. She could sleep until the afternoon, and then some. But if she sleeps, she'll dream—of people she's loved and lost and of near-death experiences—and she doesn't want to deal with that right now.

"Do you work here in town?" The question interrupts her mental debate, and she turns to see his fiery green eyes staring back at her.

"No, I work at a diner in Forks," she explains.

"Forks?" Edward's forehead creases from what she assumes is confusion. The name is a little odd, and it is somewhat ironic that she is a waitress in a place with the same name as an eating utensil.

"Yeah. It's a small town about an hour from here. Have you ever heard of it?"

A pained expression suddenly takes his face hostage, and he begins gnawing the inside of his jaw fretfully. "Yeah, I've heard of it."

The grim tone of his voice puzzles her. His square jaw sets and he exhales roughly. She decides to ignore her inquisitive nature and suppresses the urge to ask him any questions of her own. It is late and she's sure she has worn out her welcome.

"I better go," she says, gripping her keys firmly to avoid losing them a second time. He rises from the sofa when she does.

"I'll walk you to your truck."

"No, that's not necessary. You've done enough for me for one night," she insists.

For a second, he looks annoyed. "I already told you I'm not letting you go back down there alone while that creep's still out there. It's non-negotiable."

She concedes, feeling somewhat like a child having to be escorted by an adult just to avoid getting kidnapped. They walk down the flight of stairs to the parking lot, an uneasy silence occupying the space between them once again. When she settles behind the wheel of her truck, she hesitates before closing the door. What could she possibly say to convey her gratitude?

"Thank you, really. You have no idea how much I appreciate everything." She hopes he can see the sincerity in her face, to know that she's not just being polite.

"Don't worry about it." He places a hand on the door to close it, but stops just as she cranks the engine. "Be careful, Bella."

Tingles radiate all through her body at the sound of her name coming from his silken voice for the first time. She nods her head, unable to speak, and the rusty door closes between them. In her rearview mirror, she takes once last glimpse at Edward standing on the rain-slickened pavement. With his face still fixed in a solemn expression, he watches her old Chevy drive through the dark alley and out of sight.

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**A/N: **So reviews? What do you think about Bella's first real encounter with Edward? Do you like his little loft? Also, if you're looking for an edgier take on the Twilight characters, check out LouderThanSirens **Dismantle, Repair**—you won't be disappointed! Luv ya'll! Thanks for supporting me!


	9. Chapter 9: Unexpected

**Chapter Nine: Unexpected**

The navy blue, turtleneck sweater is irritating the hell out of her. The late September weather is not really cool enough to warrant needing such thick fabric during the daytime. But right now it is necessary. The marks on her neck, chest and arms appear far more prominent in the daylight. Fresh shades of purple, blue, pink and red, like some fucked up tie-dye pattern that went horribly wrong. The ivory concealer that she normally uses to hide blemishes wasn't very effective this morning. It takes a ridiculous amount of time to blend it just right to match her fair skin tone.

Bella focuses all her concentration on taking lunch orders and toting serving trays. Every time a flash of the previous night's near-death encounter enters her mind, she uses the cling and clatter of dishware as a mental shield. The noon crowd is hellacious for a Friday. She can't count how many times she's had to repeat the daily lunch special:

"Hello, how are you? Today's special is hamburger steak with a side of mashed potatoes and lemon meringue pie for dessert."

Jessica and Cal have been snapping sarcastic remarks at each other since breakfast. He's pissed because her pink, polished fingers stay glued to her Blackberry, and she can't understand why he's being so unfair. Doesn't he understand that text messaging and social networking are more important than attending to customers? Why he has not fired her yet is beyond Bella's comprehension.

Charlie relayed Mrs. Lucas's funeral arrangements to her this morning before he left for work. She has no intention of going, but it's not out of lack of respect or love for the grandmotherly figure that'd brought some semblance of familial affection back into Bella's life. It's just that the funeral in March was quite enough for one year. As she watched the pallbearers carry her mother's casket through the church doors, she vowed she'd never endure another funeral service again.

She remembers it as being one of the worst forms of torture—sitting there among family, friends and strangers and desperately trying not to unravel under the weight of their sympathetic stares. Tears and snot and the inability to stuff enough tissues in the pocket of her formal black attire—definitely not an experience that Bella wants to relive. Instead, she whispers a silent, mournful goodbye to the sweet woman in her heart and hopes that she's better off wherever it is that people go in the hereafter.

She reaches up to tug at the neck of her sweater once more and longs for the gray cotton she'd come home wearing last night. It was absurd, she knows, to have slept in the borrowed t-shirt and to have greedily inhaled the scent of it like some kind of helpless drug addict. As she'd lain restless in her bed through the dark, early hours of morning, she had replayed his voice over and over in her head. And as she works through the lunch rush, she does it again.

The panicked questions of concern when he first saw her quivering on the alley pavement; the angry tone that tinged his smooth voice when he saw her bruised flesh; the way her name spilt from his full, pink lips like warm honey. Every memory of it sends those fuzzy tingles radiating through her body, and then the numbness sets in to anesthetize whatever soreness remains from her attacker's iron grip. Sweet Novocain.

Things slow to a lazy crawl in the late afternoon. Two coffee sipping patrons remain at the counter, chatting about the coming winter weather and the sports section of the local newspaper. When the little bell on the diner door jingles with the entrance of another customer, neither Bella nor Jess pays attention to it. They busy themselves with dishcloths and brooms to clean up the mess left behind by the frenzied lunch crowd.

Jessica is the first to take notice, and when she sees the familiar, long-lost figure that's just stepped into the diner, her bubblegum nearly tumbles from her mouth onto the floor. Bella catches sight of her shocked expression and looks over to see the visitor who has just prompted Jess's astonished reaction.

_No way in hell_. Bella nearly drops the broom in her hand.

His lanky form strides over to the counter, a crumpled ball of fabric tucked under his arm. The two remaining diners take a break from their coffee cups and newspaper discussion to stare at him. Bella leans the broom against the wall beside the kitchen door and gingerly approaches the counter to greet the unexpected visitor.

Green eyes meet brown.

"Bella," he says. His mouth moves in the most peculiar manner, like he's chewing the inside of his jaw nervously—just like he did last night.

"Edward?" Bella rasps. "Can I help you?"

Then, she chides herself for sounding like a complete moron. _Why don't you offer to recite the disgusting daily special to him while you're at it?_

He moves closer and hands the crumpled ball to her. The cloud of confusion clears from her brain when she realizes that he's holding her jacket. She hadn't even thought about it.

"You forgot this," he says. "I found it in my bathroom this morning."

Jess snorts audibly, and Bella turns to cast a disdainful glare her way. Turning back, her cheeks flush slightly under his gaze, and she accepts the returned item gratefully.

"Thank you. I can't believe you drove all the way here just to return this." She shakes her head, incredulous. "How did you know…"

"No problem. It wasn't hard to find you," he explains. He shifts his weight anxiously from foot to the other, shoving his hand into his jeans pocket.

Suddenly, she remembers telling him that she worked at a diner in Forks; that explains how he knew where to find her. But why in the hell would he drive an hour out of his way just to bring back her forgotten jacket? Couldn't he have left it at the bar for her to pick up later? Or thrown it away?

Before she can ask him anything, she hears Jessica rudely clearing her throat in the background, begging to make her presence known. There's something about the way Jess is staring at them—piqued curiosity and a hint of something else that Bella can't quite pinpoint. Edward's eyes dart toward her for a second, and Jess flashes a flirtatious smile at him.

_Perhaps, Jess has paid a visit to the Cullen's bar in Port Angeles a time or two. _Bella shudders at the possibility of him even being an acquaintance of her trampy arch nemesis.

Refusing to allow her nosey coworker any more access to her and Edward's conversation, Bella politely asks him to step outside with her. They move to the front parking lot to continue talking, but Bella notices that they're still not without an audience. Jess has conveniently relocated to the front of the diner, pretending to wash the large windows—a chore she always leaves for Bella. Edward peers over his shoulder at the eavesdropping waitress behind them and motions for Bella to follow him to a different area. He leans against the backside of what she assumes to be his vehicle—the same shiny, silver Volvo she remembers seeing from last night—and it blocks out the prying eyes of Jessica and the other customers. Their keen interest is a mystery to Bella. She can't imagine why anyone would care who he is or why she's talking to him.

She clutches the jacket closer to her, thankful for something to keep her hands occupied. And when he speaks first, she breathes a sigh of relief.

"How are you?" he asks, running his eyes over her covered neck.

She touches the sweater and then rubs her sore arm. "I'm good. Nothing that won't fade in a couple of days."

She gestures toward his still very red, right hook. "How about the hand?"

Examining his red knuckles briefly, he shrugs, "I'll live."

Finally, she manages to ask the real question that's burning in her mind. Holding up the jacket, she requests some sort of explanation for his actions. Could he really be so thoughtful?

"Why in the world would you come all the way to Forks just to deliver this?"

"I didn't. I—," he pauses and kicks at a pebble on the ground. "I have some business to take care of here—a few errands to run," he hedges. "I thought I'd bring it by while I was in the area."

_Of course, that makes sense. He didn't drive an hour to Forks just to return a stupid jacket to an almost stranger. _She scolds herself for such silly wishful thinking. _Did you really think he was doing a special favor just for you?_

"Oh," she nods understandingly. "Well, I appreciate it very much. And last night, too."

"It was nothing, Bella. Really."

His face is serious; that solemn mask he's worn since the first time she laid eyes on him remains cemented on his handsome features. She'd like to see him smile just once before he leaves—the way he did that night at the bar when Carlisle wrapped his arm around him.

"It's not_ nothing_, Edward. You've done more for me in the last twelve hours than some of my closest relatives have my whole life. I wish there was some way I could make it up to you."

"That's not necessary," he waves his hand dismissively. "I'm just glad I was there."

A pained expression takes over his face—the same one she recalls seeing the night before when she'd mentioned Forks. She doesn't know why it is there, but she knows she doesn't want him to leave wearing it. She fumbles for something to say that will lighten the heavy mood.

"Well, if you ever find yourself getting attacked in a darkened alley, just yell for me. I'll come to your rescue wielding a crowbar." She smiles, hoping he finds humor in her words.

Suddenly, the sullen grimace on his face breaks into the most adorable, crooked grin she's ever seen. It brightens the emerald hue of his eyes and reveals the slight asymmetry of near-perfect face. And he laughs. No, he doesn't just laugh…he chuckles. Like a little kid.

A fit of giggles escapes Bella's mouth at the realization of just how amusing the image really is. To think of her skinny, five-feet-four figure charging wildly after some vicious criminal—a crowbar swinging fiercely in her tiny hand, ready to beat the hell out of whoever dared to lay a hand on her valiant, bartending hero. As if he'd ever need her help! From the scuffle she'd witnessed in the alley, it certainly appeared that he could handle himself very well.

"Swan!" Cal's irritated tone booms across the lot. He leans out of the front door, scowling at them. "I'm not paying you to stand around and chit chat."

Rolling her eyes, she turns to cast a be-there-in-a-minute glance at her agitated boss. When she turns back to face Edward, his grin has disappeared again, replaced by a blank expression. They say their polite goodbyes, and Bella reluctantly starts trudging back to the diner.

As she passes by the passenger side of the Volvo, something catches in her peripheral vision—a hint of color against the black, leather interior of his car. She pauses for a second glimpse, but quickly resumes pace, not wanting him to think she's as nosey as the others. A new swirl of confusion and curiosity invades her mind.

_What, or who, could those be for? Certainly not me._

No doubt, she'll continue mulling it over for the remaining hours of her shift. Cal shuffles away from the entrance, letting the door swing behind him and muttering something unintelligible.

She reaches out to catch the handle, but stops short when she hears her name wrapped in the velvet of Edward's voice.

"Bella?" he calls out from the driver's side window.

Her cheeks flush, her skin pinked by those tingles yet again. She looks over her shoulder at him. "Yeah?"

"Are you coming to the bar tomorrow night?" He scratches the back of neck nervously and combs his fingers through his untidy nest of hair.

Puzzled, she bites her bottom lip, trying to discern the reason behind his question. She hadn't planned on returning to Port Angeles this weekend, especially not after the last couple of lousy experiences she'd had there. Then, she remembers. Alice had invited her to come hear some "wicked awesome band" playing at the bar. Edward had been standing right next to his cousin when she'd offered Bella the invitation—albeit, he was behaving rather abstractedly at the time.

An enthusiastic smile spreads across her full-heart lips; she tries to hide it but is unsuccessful. She nods eagerly. "Yeah, I'll be there."


	10. Chapter 10: Q & A

**A/N: **This is a short transitional chapter—but it contains a ton of important dialogue & a splash of humor. This is probably my last update until next weekend (sniffle, tear). *Virtual hearts* to all of you lovely readers out there!

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Chapter Ten: Q & A

One white calla lily. A single pink rose.

Those are what she sees on the passenger seat of Edward's Volvo, and they're what she thinks about when she re-enters the diner.

Cal has shuffled back to the kitchen, but Jessica is still lingering at the front window. Trying to be nonchalant, she spritzes blue window cleaner and wipes it away with a rag. With an annoyed roll of her eyes, Bella bypasses her and heads to the register to ring up the two remaining customers. As she collects their coffee cups and empty sugar packets, she considers the significance of what she saw in the car. Not a romantic bouquet or some grand arrangement from a floral shop—just two, simple pink and white flowers.

A cotton candy-scented bubble pops beside her, prompting Bella to look at her meddling coworker leaning on the counter. Jessica smacks her gum obnoxiously, an inquisitive smile playing on her lips.

"So," she begins while twirling a piece of her curly hair around her finger, "how do you know Edward?"

"What?" Bella maintains her focus on the task at hand, trying to sound indifferent.

"Edward Masen, the drop-dead gorgeous guy that just walked in here." Jess probes, raising her eyebrows. "How do you know him?"

Much to her dismay, Bella realizes that her notion was right. Jessica and Edward _do _know each other. Considering her enemy's promiscuous, high-school behavior in the little time she's known her, she can only imagine _how _Jessica and Edward know each other. After all, Jessica does know her way around Port Angeles rather well. Her heart sinks a bit.

"I don't know him, _exactly_," she explains, realizing that until just now, she didn't even know his last name. Considering his relation to Alice and Carlisle, she had assumed his surname was also Cullen. She decides to explain further—not that it's any of Miss Priss's business—in hopes that Jess will divulge more details on this Edward _Masen_.

"I met him in Port Angeles. He's a bartender there. I accidently left my jacket at his place," Bella regrets her wording once she understands how suggestive that must sound.

Astonishment colors Jess's face for the second time that day. "I see," she says, her jaw dropping slightly. "So you hooked up with a bartender? Wow, I'm impressed. I didn't take you for a one-night-stand kind of girl."

Bella whirls around, nearly dropping the tray of dirty dishes in her hand, and marches toward Jessica.

"No, I didn't _hook up_ with him," she fumes, "not that it's any of your damn business!" Heated anger radiates from her face. "As a matter of fact, he saved me from getting raped, and possibly murdered, by some creep last night."

"_Sor-ry_," Jessica huffs, as if taken aback by Bella's offended response.

"Well, maybe you should keep your mouth shut when you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Bella grabs the tray again and prepares to storm into the kitchen to throw the dishes in the sink. She's had just about enough of Miss Stanley's attitude for one day.

"I know a lot more about him than _you_ do, obviously," Jess remarks smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bella's tone turns sardonic. "Oh, let me guess. Is he one of the guys on your roster of old boyfriends?"

She is seething. Aggravation and sarcasm hide the fear of disappointment rising within her. She is eager to hear the truth, but reluctant at the same time.

"No," Jessica scoffs. "Apparently, nobody here is good enough for him."

"What do you mean _here_? Here in Forks?" Bella asks, confused even more now than she was earlier.

"His whole family is from Forks. They're, like, millionaires. We went to high school together." Jessica smirks with pride at knowing something that her fellow waitress does not.

_Well, that explains the shiny Volvo and upscale apartment_, Bella reasons. She wrinkles her forehead, trying to recall having seen him at Forks High. Surely, she would have remembered him—unless he moved away before her arrival in the spring.

Jessica detects Bella's bemused expression and elaborates. "He's a few years older than us. He graduated when I was a freshman." She stops momentarily to pick at her nails and quirks her head to the side. "Of course, that was before _you _came along."

_That's it—enough for one day! _

Fed up with Stanley's snide remarks and condescension, Bella decides to put a stop to the sophomoric games, once and for all. She approaches her sneering coworker, moving so close to her that she can practically count the enlarged pores on her nose. A more brazen Bella emerges with a newfound confidence. In the past twenty-four hours, she has faced much worse than this jealous, vindictive twit, and she's not about to back down now.

"You know what, Jess?" Bella keeps her tone calm, her voice steady. "You're a bitch. I've never had anything to do with Mike Newton and I never will. If you have a problem, take it up with your boyfriend because I'm _done_ with this childish bullshit of yours."

Bella turns and heads for the kitchen, but before she can push through the swinging door, a spiteful retort is thrown at her back.

"Well, I'd rather be a bitch than some little redneck hick like you," Jessica hisses venomously.

Her half-bitten nails dig into the plastic tray, but she keeps walking and pushes the kitchen door with greater force than necessary. The grin on Cal's bearded mouth serves as a tell-tale sign of how much he's enjoyed listening to his employees' little spat. Bella dumps the dirty coffee cups into the sink beside him and slams down the tray. Placing a hand on her hip, she looks up at his amused face and growls.

"Where the hell is a good crowbar when you need one?"

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**A/N: **Was the crowbar too harsh? Ha, ha. Whenever I write or read Jessica Stanley, I always envision this evil tramp I went to high school with. Forgive me; this is my twisted form of therapy.


	11. Chapter 11: Live Music

**A/N: **I was listening to a lot of The Weeks & Kings of Leon while writing this one. The band in the story probably sounds something like that—or whatever you want them to sound like; it's your imagination. THANK YOU for reviews & story favs/alerts!!! Big, fat virtual hearts to all of you in FF world!

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**Chapter Eleven: Live Music**

Disappointment and frustration are draped on the hangers in Bella's closet. Before she moved to Forks—before her entire life morphed into some pear-shaped disaster—she hardly worried over her wardrobe at all. It was simple then—casual at school, chic on weekend nights, and formal when the occasion called for it. Now, however, it takes more careful planning. There are scars to hide; and thanks to her encounter with that night-stalking fiend, she can now add scrapes and bruises to the list.

The autumn weather has brought cooler nights, but it still is not cold enough to warrant thick layers or a heavy coat. And that damned blue turtleneck she wore yesterday nearly smothered her. She eyes the lightweight, green jacket lying on her bed. What will she do with it? She cannot wear it again—not with its associated bad memories and ripped front pocket—but she can't bring herself to discard it either. It symbolizes the unexpected kindness of a near-stranger; his scent still clings to the fabric. Bella folds it carefully and places it in her dresser drawer for later consideration.

Returning her attention to the opened closet, she sighs dejectedly. She takes a long-sleeve, gray shirt from a hanger. The neckline is manageable, and the fabric is thin enough. It hugs her figure nicely while offering a sufficient amount of coverage. She pairs it with jeans and sneakers and settles in front of her lighted makeup mirror.

Thankfully, the red marks on her neck are not as prominent in the evening light as they were this morning. Any bruising is hidden beneath the shirt and long sleeves. She scrupulously applies ivory concealer and powder to her face and neck and lets the espresso-colored waves of her hair hide the rest. A very light sweeping of blush on her cheekbones balances her complexion. Then, as she sorts through her cosmetic case, she picks up her black eyeliner pencil and debates whether or not she really needs all this _junk_ on her face.

_A little can't hurt_, she decides. She applies a very thin, black line to each lid, followed by a single coat of mascara—waterproof, this time—to her lashes.

Somewhat satisfied with her as-good-as-it-gets appearance, she rises from her chair and finds her purse. Instead of lugging it on her shoulder all night, she opts to leave it behind and fills her pockets with only the essentials: driver's license, cash, cell phone.

Downstairs, Charlie is lounging on the couch with a cold beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other. Bella shuffles to the door, ready to be anywhere but here, and tells her father goodnight as she walks outside. By the time he turns to wave over his shoulder, she is already behind the wheel.

***

"Hi, Bella!" A familiar windchime voice greets her at the entrance.

All at once, tiny arms wrap around her and feathery, cropped hair brushes her cheek. The beaming face is that of Alice Cullen, the friendly waitress Bella met just over a week ago. Caught off-guard, Bella does not think in time to reciprocate the embrace before Alice pulls away.

"I'm so glad you're alright! Edward told me what happened." The pixie waitress's face is sincere, her golden eyes brimming with thoughtful concern.

"Yeah, I…" Bella starts but fails to get a word in before Alice chimes again.

"I'm happy you were able to come tonight. The band is just setting up," she points a dainty finger toward the back stage. "They're awesome! I can't wait!" she rings, clapping her hands excitedly.

Bella smiles, attempting to mirror Alice's enthusiasm. "Me too," she replies. "Thanks for inviting me."

"No problem," Alice giggles. "I love hanging out with new people." The beauty of her face is accentuated by the honesty and kindness in her voice.

Just as Alice takes Bella's arm to lead her through the room, a new voice emerges from behind them. "That's right. Alice never meets a stranger."

Bella turns to see an attractive, golden-haired man standing beside Alice. Almost immediately, she recognizes him as the man that Alice pointed out as her father and owner of the bar. His name escapes her, but she clearly remembers his classic Hollywood face from her previous visit.

"Bella, this is my dad, Carlisle Cullen," she says, smiling sweetly. "And Dad, this is my friend, Bella Swan."

Carlisle reaches out and politely shakes Bella's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bella," he says.

"She's a big fan of Edward's music," Alice jingles.

A crimson-cheeked Bella fumbles for some kind of response, but comes up with nothing. This new swirl of social attention is foreign to her. Nervously, she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and maintains an amiable smile.

"Is that so?" he grins. "Well, any fan of my nephew is certainly welcome here."

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," Bella manages to respond. She bites her bottom lip and tries to erase any sign of the mortified expression that resulted from Alice's previous statement.

"Please, call me Carlisle," he requests, placing a hand lightly on Bella's shoulder.

Eyeing the young musicians milling around the back stage, Carlisle sighs and shakes his head. "Excuse me, ladies, but I better see what I can do to help get things set up," he says before making his way through the thickening crowd.

"Come on, Bella. We can chat at the bar." Alice takes Bella's arm and leads her across the room to a couple of empty barstools. She takes her place on one of them and pats the red leather of the stool beside her, inviting Bella to sit down.

Cullen's is especially crowded tonight, packed with young bodies craving live music and half-priced drinks. Her dark chocolate eyes survey the room for the slightest glimpse of a six-foot-tall, lanky figure, but he's nowhere in sight. She chokes back the sinking feeling of disappointment and refocuses her attention on Alice.

"Where's the bartender?" Bella asks hopefully.

Alice spins around on the barstool and scopes the room just as Bella had done. She shrugs, "I don't know. He's supposed to be here. He knows I don't work when Jas plays."

"Jas?" Bella wrinkles her brow, curious as to whom this newly named character might be.

"Oh, Jas," Alice answers. "See the cute guy with the curly, blonde hair?" she asks, pointing toward the stage.

Bella cranes her neck for a better look in the indicated direction. On the right corner of the stage stands a tall, fair-haired guy adjusting the strings on his guitar. A smile brightens his full lips when his wide eyes catch sight of the bar. The wink he shoots across the room elicits a glittery grin from the feather-haired girl beside her.

"That's my boyfriend, Jasper," Alice explains. "Nobody can play bass like my Jas can," she beams proudly and casts a flirty wave in his direction.

_Wicked awesome band. No bias there, _Bella muses to herself.

When Bella turns to face the bar again, she is met by a shy, crooked grin and gleaming green eyes. Her breath hitches for a moment, and she stares, mouth agape, at the face in front of her.

"Bella," Edward speaks, her name spooling from his mouth like silken threads.

Tides of warmth wash over her at the sight and sound of him. Those familiar tingles return, beginning at her fingertips and toes, traveling the length of each extremity, until finally the sensation culminates in her center. But there is no numbness—just a fuzzy, intoxicated feeling that lingers and colors her snowy skin a bright, feverish red. She prays he doesn't notice her blushing cheeks, or that if he does, he mistakes them as a side effect of the body-heated bar.

"Glad you could make it. Alice was hoping you'd be here tonight," he says, his glowing green eyes fixed on hers.

_Ah, Alice was hoping I'd be here tonight. Not Edward. _Bella chides herself for even thinking it was he who desired her presence tonight. It was foolish to make such an inference in the first place.

Tuning out her mental reprimand, Bella replaces an unconsciously-made, disheartened frown with a congenial smile.

"I'm glad I made it here, too," she speaks finally. "I was looking forward to seeing Alice again."

She checks to the right of her to see if Alice is listening, but she has yet to break her focus from her handsome bass player onstage. She sits turned on the barstool, her back to Edward and Bella, mouthing something to Jasper and waving at the other band members.

Edward playfully rolls his eyes at his love-struck cousin and locks eyes with Bella once more.

"It's good to see you again," he says, leaning over the bar so she can hear him over roar of voices. "Under these happier circumstances, of course," he corrects.

Digging her thumbnail into her forefinger to stifle another blushed reaction, Bella nods her head. "I just want to thank you again, for everything. I—"

Edward holds up a hand to halt her, the crooked grin making an encore appearance on his lips. "Stop thanking me, Bella," he interrupts. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"About that," she starts again, "what were you doing out there that time of night in the pouring rain? I didn't see anyone else around."

He runs a hand through his messy locks—a nervous habit, she deduces—and rocks forward, resting his arms on the countertop in front of her.

"I went to get a pack of cigarettes from my car," he explains while toying with a stray bottle cap on the counter. "Before I could get the door open, I heard someone yelling from the alley. That's when I ran over to check things out."

"Well, I'm really grateful that your nicotine fit kicked in at the right time." She giggles, and he joins in her amusement with a close-mouthed smile that quickly fades.

When he opens his mouth to speak again, a summons from a young man at the end of the bar steals Edward's attention. He orders a Bud Light for himself and a vodka martini for his date. Edward excuses himself from their conversation and begins his fluid, meticulous motions of pouring and mixing.

"Are you having fun yet?" Alice taps Bella on the shoulder, disrupting her gaze. Bella answers with a nod.

"I need a drink if I'm going to enjoy this show properly. Order a rum and Coke for me when Edward comes back around, if you don't mind," she requests in a polite, bubbly tone. "I'm going to the ladies' room. Be right back." She hops off the barstool and disappears into the crowd.

Bella decides she deserves a little celebratory cocktail of her own and leans in to catch Edward's attention. A stoic expression is fixed upon his countenance—the same look he'd had the first two times she'd visited the bar. After several seconds, she succeeds in waving him over.

"Alice and I will have two rum and Cokes, please," she says, feeling more confident now that she's begun to absorb the contented spirit of the patrons around her.

Edward leans his face in closely to hers so he can study her eyes carefully. "Can I ask you a question?" he says, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Yes," Bella nods curiously.

"How old are you?" His emerald eyes stare directly into hers.

"Nineteen," she answers steadily and bites her lip to suppress a sly grin.

He cocks his eyebrow at her, a gesture that ignites a fierce chemical reaction in her bloodstream. She remembers her second visit to Cullen's and the way he had given her a similar dubious expression when she'd ordered her favorite beer.

Feeling bold, she asks, "What? Are you going to lecture me on the dangers of underage drinking?"

She lets some of her dry wit seep through her tone in hopes of coaxing a bit of humor out of the shy bartender. She longs for a deeper look into this mysterious character that had shunned her upon their first meeting and rescued her at their last. The laughter that illuminated his seraphic face when she'd cracked her crowbar joke at the diner was beautiful—a genuine spark of joy that had lightened the heaviness in his sad eyes. And she wants more than anything at that moment to see it again.

The left corner of his mouth pulls up in the bud of a smile but falls flat before it can bloom into another adorable grin. "Not at all," he replies, shaking his head minutely. "Just curious."

He turns to retrieve two glasses and begins filling Bella's order. She observes his motions at work, occasionally shifting her focus elsewhere to avoid blatant gawking. When the band starts playing behind her, the crowd begins cheering loudly. Bella swivels on her stool to join in their excitement. She notices Alice's tiny figure pushing through the standing maze of bodies.

"I'm back, all refreshed now! Did Edward get my drink yet?" she shouts over the din of guitars and drums.

Bella turns around to see Edward placing two filled glasses on the bar. When he spots Alice, he nudges the right one toward her.

"This is yours," he tells her. "And this one is yours," he says to Bella as he tops off the left glass with two Maraschino cherries.

Alice begins happily sipping away at her cocktail. She clutches the drink in her hand, trains her eyes on the stage, and bobs her head from side to side in rhythm with the music. As Bella takes her first sip, she scrunches up her nose in confusion at the unexpected taste. Crisp and sweet, but no trace of alcohol. When she looks back over her shoulder at Edward questioningly, she finds a wily smirk is fixed on his lips. He beckons her to move closer with a swift movement of his forefinger. She slants forward, allowing him access to her ear.

"I have no qualms with underage drinking; however, I'm sure my uncle Carlisle feels differently," he whispers.

The sensation of his breath tickling her ear causes the tiny hairs on the back of her arms and neck to stand on end. The marvelous feeling of it delays her understanding of the meaning of his words at first. Recovering, she sits back and allows the words to register. Not wanting to cause any trouble for him, she nods understandingly. She takes one of the maraschinos from the top of her cherry Coke and pops it into her mouth, enjoying the fruity flavor as well as the sentimental memories attached to it. Edward returns to his bartending obligations, and Bella rejoins Alice, sipping her drink and swaying to the music.

When Alice laughs, Bella laughs, and when she sings, Bella attempts to follow along, learning pieces of the choruses throughout the night. It's the first time in many months' worth of lonely, uneventful nights that Bella actually feels alive—like she is a part of something and a part of the people around her. For those few hours, she feels youthful and happy and silly, the way any nineteen-year-old girl should be.

Just after midnight, when the band has played its final song, the crowd disperses and Bella rises from her seat at the bar to leave for the night.

"Uh, not so fast, Miss Bella. "Alice places a hand on Bella's shoulder, causing her to turn and face in attention. "You must meet Jas before you go!" Alice beams a pearly smile.

She leads Bella to the back of the room where the band is packing up their instruments and equipment. She grabs the blonde guitarist by the waist and squeezes him, nudging his neck with her nose.

"Jas, this is my new friend, Bella Swan," Alice introduces, pointing to Bella. "And Bella, this is my boyfriend Jasper Hale."

Bella reaches out and shakes his hand, pleased to make another acquaintance. "Nice to meet you," she tells him.

"You too," Jasper winks. "Did you enjoy our little show tonight?"

Nodding her head enthusiastically, she replies, "Absolutely! You guys really are as awesome as Alice said you were."

"Thanks. She's probably our biggest fan." Jasper's wide mouth forms a proud grin before planting a soft kiss on Alice's forehead.

"Well, you're very talented," Alice beams up at him adoringly, giving a playful finger tap on his nose.

Normally, Bella would find herself cringing in the presence of such displays; however, there is something very endearing and sincere about the affection between Alice and Jasper. The two of them seem to have a calming effect over her that she cannot explain, and somehow it makes their loving gestures and conversation bearable.

"Ah, don't let her fool you," Jasper pipes, "Alice is way more talented than I am. Did she tell you she's the female Picasso?"

A light giggle springs from her lips as she waves off his flattery. "No, I'm not," Alice says rolling her eyes.

Curious, Bella quirks her head at Alice and inquires, "You're an artist?"

"Not an _artist_, really. A few of my pieces are on display at one of the local galleries for a few weeks. It's nothing special—just a hobby," she explains modestly.

"Wow, I'd love to see it. Maybe I can check it out sometime," Bella says, taking a genuine interest. "Where is the exhibit?"

"It's at the Waterfront Art Gallery." Alice's golden eyes suddenly sparkle with excitement. "I'm taking Jasper there tomorrow. Oh, Bella, please come! It'll be fun," she beams, her eyebrows raised hopefully.

"Sure. That sounds great," Bella acquiesces, feeling very appreciative for some additional social stimulation to fill the void of a workless Sunday.

Alice claps her tiny hands together in a brief flutter of jubilation and digs into her purse for her cell phone. She exchanges numbers with Bella, giving the promise of a text message by morning. Once Bella receives a parting hug from Alice and a goodbye wave from Jasper, she tucks her hands in her pockets and makes her way to the front door.

As she crosses the room, she casts a quick glance at the bar, but fails to find the figure she's searching for. Her heart sinks with longing for a final, goodnight glimpse of Edward's face to take home with her. Another face, golden and gracious, bids her and the last remaining patrons good evening at the door.

"Good night, Bella," Carlisle smiles warmly. "I hope to see you again soon."

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**A/N: **This one was longer than usual, but I figured you guys deserved it after waiting for over a week for a new update. **REVIEWS** make me bubblier than Alice! So if you guys don't write me something (good, bad, funny, whatever) I'll be very sad :-( Thanks, again, my lovelies!!!


	12. Chapter 12: Scenery

**A/N: **Did someone pimp my story somewhere or something? Traffic picked up out of nowhere, so just wondering why. Your reviews/story alerts/favs make my day! No joke; when school is dragging me down, you guys pick me back up. Thanks to Wikipedia & Google Maps for all my new Washington knowledge. Tons of dialogue here, but very _informative_ dialogue, I hope. Pretty please let me know what you think! Thanks ;-)

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**Chapter Twelve: Scenery **

"Went to Port Angeles again last night, huh?" a hoarse, morning-voiced Charlie questions before taking another slurp of coffee.

Bella finishes drowning her bowl of corn flakes in milk and artificial sweetener and settles into the wobbly dining chair across from him. The sunlight filtering through the kitchen window is too much for her on this early Sunday morning. Shielding her eyes with her hand and staring into her breakfast cereal, she answers her unusually inquisitive father.

"Yeah. My friend Alice invited me to see her boyfriend's band," she says before heaping a spoonful of soggy flakes into her mouth.

A raised pair of dark brows peeks over the rim of the coffee mug tilted at Charlie's mouth. "Who's Alice? I've never heard you mention her before."

"Alice Cullen. I just met her," she explains while tucking a piece of her bedhead hair behind her ear. "She's really nice."

"That's great," he says, somewhat surprised at his daughter's newly revitalized social life.

"What do you mean _that's great_?" she asks, puzzled by his out-of-the-blue questions and comments. For the past seven months, she has become accustomed to eating in silence. Mealtime chat is foreign territory.

"I just mean I've hardly seen you leave this house for anything other than school or work. I think it's good you're getting out—having fun."

Bella nods, taking another bite of her mushy cereal. "I'm going back today to see some of her artwork at one of the galleries in town."

"Oh, really?" With a thoughtful scratch of his bearded chin, he asks, "What'd you say her last name was again?"

"Cullen. She and her family are from Forks, actually." She recalls Friday's conversation with Jessica. Curious, she decides to dig for more information. After all, if anyone knows anything about the people from this area, it's the chief of police.

Charlie straightens in his chair, suddenly taking a keen interest in the conversation. "Is her father Carlisle?"

She puts down her spoon, tired of trying to find anything appetizing about the milk-covered cardboard floating in her bowl, and meets Charlie's attentive eyes. Her father has never been one for casual chit chat; either he knows something important, or he wants to.

"Yes," she answers. "He owns a bar in Port Angeles. Alice works there."

"I'll be damned." He leans back in his chair and cocks his head to the side, a pensive crease forming on his forehead. "Port Angeles," he mulls. "So that's where they ended up."

"Do you remember them?" Bella slants forward, anxious to draw more from him.

"Remember the Cullens? Of course," he replies, as if it the details of the family in question should be obvious to anyone. "They're one of the wealthiest families in this part of Washington. Old money. Carlisle's grandparents cashed in on the timber industry when it was a thriving business back in the forties," he explains knowledgeably. "Hell, they pretty much owned this half of Clallam County."

Bella gapes at him somewhat in shock that anything Jessica Stanley had said could have any truth to it. She reasons that it makes sense—a bartender who can afford to drive a nice car and live in a snazzy downtown loft, and a waitress who wears designer clothes and carries an expensive handbag. But what doesn't make sense is why they even bother with having jobs in the first place.

"Carlisle and his sister Esme inherited everything. Your friend Alice is a lucky young lady to be next in line for that fortune," he chuckles to himself.

"Esme?" she inquires, thirsting for more details about this newly named person.

"Esme Cullen—well, Masen after she married."

_Esme Masen. _Bella repeats the name in her head several times. _Edward's mother, perhaps? That would explain the difference between his and Alice's surnames. _

This discussion is becoming one of the lengthiest dialogues on record between her and her father. At the moment, however, she can't bring herself to mourn how pathetic it really is—how some past Forks residents that she wouldn't have cared less about a few weeks ago could somehow be the pinnacle of her interest now.

Confused and intrigued, she prods further. "Why did they all leave Forks?"

Charlie's jaw sets in a hardened expression. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes become more defined as his face turns distraught. Clearly hedging, he diverts his brown eyes to the half-empty coffee cup in front of him. Taking a final gulp of the lukewarm liquid, he clears his throat and shakes his head.

"Guess they just needed a change of scenery," he answers bleakly.

***

Shortly after breakfast—once she's showered and dressed in her usual casual attire—Bella's phone buzzes in her pocket with a much anticipated text message.

_Meet us at Café Garden on East First Street at 1p.m for lunch. Can't wait to see you! Alice._

As she drives east along the evergreen blur of highway to her destination, she mulls over her father's words. His strange reaction to her last question about the Cullen's move—the dark shift in his mood and the way he'd refused to divulge any more on the subject—causes her mind to swirl with a new, befuddled jumble of questions. The cut-off conversation leaves her frustrated and dissatisfied, but it gives her something to ponder during the hour-long commute.

When she arrives at Café Garden, she parks her beastly Chevy next to a glossy, yellow Porsche. She exits her truck and takes in the scenery, breathing in the fresh, Olympic air. This is the first time she's seen Port Angeles in the broad light of day. The sun peeks through the clouds and sparkles the gray harbor as boats push through the salty water, sounding their horns. It is so different from the trees and moss of Forks; the green and brown is replaced by varying shades of blue and white. Lighter and happier. She understands why the Cullens—and the Masens—decided to relocate.

"Bella!" calls a familiar musical voice.

She turns to see Alice and Jasper emerging from the sporty car beside her.

_A Porsche. Figures, _she muses.

"Hey, Alice," she greets the fashionably-clad, petite form prancing her way.

She waves at Jasper as well, amused to see his holey jeans and faded concert t-shirt. What a contrast he is standing next to Alice—she with her black hair and brown eyes, and he with his blonde curls and azure eyes. Dark and light; gregarious and reserved. But somehow, despite their obvious dissimilarities, they seem perfectly compatible.

"I thought we could grab some lunch before we go to the gallery," she says. "This is great little place."

"Sounds good." Bella laughs as her stomach growls expectantly, ungratified by the morning's meal.

The small café resembles a quaint cottage, its exterior immaculately landscaped with a variety of flowers and shrubs. Alice walks arm-in-arm with Jasper to the front door, chattering away about this and that. Jas steps aside to open the door for his female companions, and then reassumes his position by Alice's side. Bella cannot help but absorb the infectious ebullience of her new friend, smiling and giggling in the most girlish way—something she hasn't done since she was with her other friends back home.

The atmosphere inside the restaurant is fresh and bright; the afternoon sunlight shines through the wide windows, creating a welcoming environment. Each of the tables is draped in a crisp, white linen tablecloth and set with glass water goblets and silverware—quite the contrast to Cal's lackluster diner. The young hostess seats the three at a booth near the entrance and leaves them with their menus.

The waiter that takes their orders is prompt and polite, exactly what one would expect from such a charming place. Jasper and Bella choose their lunch orders quickly—a Reuben sandwich on rye for him, chicken salad for her. Meanwhile, Alice spends several minutes longer debating over the house spinach or Caesar salad, and eventually settles for the latter.

While waiting for the food to arrive, Bella decides to take the opportunity to learn more about the vibrant couple seated across from her.

"So how did you two meet?" she asks before taking a sip of ice water.

"It was our junior year at Seattle University," Alice begins. "I was studying art, and of course, Jas was a music major. We crossed paths at a friend's party one night where his band was playing, and he found me irresistible." A pearl-string smile illuminates her face, and Jasper winks in response.

"It's not like I could help it. Alice here was the hottest art major on campus," he teases, the blue of his eyes gleaming with affection.

"We shared an apartment until graduation last spring," she continues. "Then, I came here to be closer to my dad for a while. That's when I got my job at the gallery. My dad knows the owner," she explains between sips of diet soda. "That's where I work during the day Monday thru Thursday. I absolutely love it!"

"She teaches free art classes to some of the local children," Jasper adds.

"It's my dream," Alice chimes merrily. "To have my _own_ art studio where I can teach and then showcase the best pieces for the whole town to see!"

In the midst of their acquainting dialogue, the waiter returns with a full serving tray balanced on his palm. The three of them meet their plates with eager eyes and make comments about how appetizing each of the meals looks. The arrival of their delicious fare, however, does little to quell one of the burning questions that's been nagging Bella since her earlier talk with Charlie.

As soon as everyone is comfortably enjoying their food, she finally decides to release the inquiry that's been lingering on her tongue.

"Alice, I don't mean to be rude," she hesitates momentarily, "but why do you work two jobs?" Suggestively, she casts her eyes to the Porsche keys resting on the corner of the table. "I mean, it's not like you have to, right?"

With an understanding nod, Alice replies. "As soon as Edward mentioned that you lived in Forks, I wondered how long it would take you to hear about the _Cullen fortune_." Her tiny fingers form quotation marks in the air when she speaks the last part.

Bella's pale complexion pinks slightly, embarrassed that she has allowed her curious nature to get the best of her. "I'm sorry; I know it's none of my business. I just don't understand."

"Nah, don't apologize," Alice says, waving her hand dismissively. "My dad is a firm believer in hard work. He even went to medical school, and when he left Forks Community Hospital a few years ago, he decided to invest in opening his own business here," she explains while adding more dressing to her salad. "The building where the bar is now was a complete wreck when he bought it, but he and Edward did most of the renovations themselves."

The fine hairs on Bella's arms stand on end, her skin becoming chill-bumped with the mention of his name. She smiles appreciatively. "I really admire that," she says earnestly.

"So do I," Alice agrees, bobbing her feather-haired head. "That's why I like to earn my own money instead of mooching off my dad. It keeps me busy, and plus, I get to meet the most interesting people at work." With a wiggle of her nose, she beams at Bella. "Like you!"

"Oh, trust me, I'm not all that interesting," Bella disagrees with a shake of her head. She takes a bite of fruit from her chicken salad plate and munches happily.

"That reminds me," Alice perks up. "I never asked how it is that you ended up in Forks. You must not have been living there for very long. I would've remembered you." Awaiting Bella's response, she takes a forkful of leafy greens into her mouth.

Tentative, Bella scoops up another mouthful of her chicken and chews thoughtfully. She uses the few seconds to reason how best to answer without going into more detail than necessary.

"I'm from Mississippi, actually," she begins. "My mom's from there originally. She passed away in March," she pauses, thankful for the euphemism as opposed the harsher 'd' word that she's come to loathe so heartily. "That's when I moved up here to live with my dad."

Alice drops her fork and glances at Bella, her caramel-colored eyes brimming with sympathy. A similar compassionate look graces Jasper's face as well. For the first time since the food arrived, he forgets about his sandwich and stops chewing. The tiny crumble of bread sticking from the corner of his mouth is amusing enough to help keep Bella's emotions in check.

"Oh, Bella," Alice coos sweetly. "I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine," she continues in hopes that further information will not be requested. A sigh of relief passes her lips when neither Alice nor Jasper presses for more.

After wiping his mouth with a napkin, Jasper interrupts the strange silence that's beginning to form in the gap between them. "Ladies, it's nearly two o'clock. Aren't we supposed to be meeting Edward at the gallery pretty soon?"

"Edward's meeting us at the gallery?" This news of unexpected company waiting for them down the street brings a sense of fluttering butterfly energy to Bella's stomach. She feels ridiculously foolish for the involuntary physical reaction to the mere mention of his possible presence.

"Yes. I've got a new piece to show him—something very special." There is an intonation of hopeful anticipation in Alice's voice. "Did I not tell you he was coming with us today?" she asks, but the look of surprise on Bella's face is a sufficient answer. She shrugs, "Well, I told him you'd be joining us."

Alice takes one last sip of her drink and removes the cloth napkin from her lap, setting it on the table. "He said he was looking forward to seeing you again."

**

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A/N: **I've got a long weekend, so I anticipate posting Ch. 13 in the next 2-3 days! Also, I feel the urge to rec some fabulous fics I've found. "Good Man, Bad Habit" by OcchiVerdi is devine; hopefully she plans on updating soon. It's not very far along yet, but she is really a syntactical genius! And "Friends with Benefits" by MaggieNY is delightful if you need something fun & sexy & sweet. Hope they don't mind my pimpin' their stuff. Thanks for sticking with me! ;-)


	13. Chapter 13: Ghosts

**A/N: **Major chapter dedication to LouderThanSirens (check her out) for all her kick-ass pimpage! Thank you so much to everyone!!! Now, as a reward for such awesome support…here's a little Edward time for ya.

*****Playlist** & **banner** can be found on my profile if ya care to take a look!

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**Chapter Thirteen: Ghosts**

Together, they make the five minute walk down the street to the Waterfront Gallery, with Alice's graceful gait piloting the way. Like a hummingbird to sugar water, she stops to hover at each of the storefront windows along the sidewalk. When they finally arrive at their destination, Jasper repeats the gentlemanly gesture of opening the door for the young women with him.

With a swollen chest of expectant breath, Bella steps through the entrance. She scopes the gallery, quickly becoming captivated by the striking pieces of artwork that line the shelves and hang upon the walls. Assorted colors and shapes. A collection of faces, objects and landscapes. Beauty surrounds her in all forms—paintings and pottery, photographs and sculptures. She can only imagine which of the brilliant displays belongs to Alice.

Near the front wall, stands a young couple gazing at a grouping of watercolors, and in the center display area, a middle-aged man takes his time observing an exhibit of ceramics. But there is no Edward.

Noticing her cousin's absence, Alice exhales an impatient puff of air. "He must be running late," she grumbles, then shrugs her petite shoulders. "Follow me, you guys," she instructs with a wave of her hand. "My stuff is back here."

She leads them further back to a small corner of the gallery where several paintings and drawings are grouped together in an area designated specifically for _Mary_ _Alice_ _Cullen_. Awestruck, Bella's mouth gapes, mimicking her widened dark eyes as they scan each piece. To the far left hang three abstract paintings, the shapes disjointed and scattered. She won't even pretend to understand the meaning behind them.

Seeking something a little less conceptually complex, she progresses to the middlemost pieces and finds an oil painting that catches her attention. Against a multihued backdrop is a pair of hands holding a bass guitar, the long, nimble fingers in play position. Beneath it, the title reads, _Jas_.

"I think this is my new favorite," Jasper remarks, pointing proudly at the canvas. "Your best work, I think." He admires the image with an angled brow, his finger placed pensively on his chin.

The compliment elicits a tinkling, little-girl laugh from Alice's mouth, and she gives his waist an affectionate squeeze. "I knew you'd love it," she says contentedly.

"These really are amazing, Alice," Bella says, her eyes continuing to survey the framed images on the wall in front of her. "Especially this one."

She pauses at one of the pieces in particular—an oil painting blooming with vivid color. She can't believe she hadn't noticed it first. The luminous smiles of the two faces beaming back at her from the canvas cause her to halt her movements completely. The portrait shows two subjects—a woman and a little girl—seated upon a white blanket in the grass. A lush, flowered meadow in the background indicates springtime. Their cheeks are glowing, their sun-kissed skin radiant and youthful. The woman's hair flows in auburn waves, and the little girl's cornsilk curls frame her innocent face.

Their expressions emanate pure happiness, but she gets a sinking feeling of something else. Like there is a darker emotion, some deeply buried sadness hidden beneath the rich, oil tones.

In a near whisper, Bella reads the title aloud. "In Loving Memory."

Responding to her words, Alice joins Bella's focus in front of the painting. "Aunt Esme and Rosalie," she states.

The first name resounds in Bella's head, an eerie echo from her morning conversation with Charlie. The bemusement in her eyes extracts further explanation from Alice.

"Edward's mom and little sister," she clarifies, the melodic jingle in her voice replaced by a minor tone, "just before they passed away three years ago."

A shudder passes through her body as she gazes into the green and blue-eyed ghosts of mother and daughter, now forever preserved in Alice's oil colors.

"What happened to them?" Bella asks, her skin now prickly with chill bumps.

"The day is too beautiful to ruin with a story like that," Alice sighs wistfully. "And it's not really mine to tell anyway."

Swallowing uncomfortably, Bella nods in understanding. She recalls Charlie's evasive reaction when she'd pressed for more information on the subject during breakfast. Perhaps the circumstances surrounding their demise are so terrible that it would be best to remain ignorant of the details completely. Her inquiring nature craves knowledge, but she pushes it aside for the time being, empathetic with Alice's choice to remain silent on the matter. After all, Bella sure as hell didn't care to discuss the particulars of her own tragic loss at the café. And, God bless their hearts, neither Alice nor Jasper probed for more. She won't either. Not now, at least.

"It's taken me so long to get up the nerve to paint them. This is what I want to show Edward," Alice says. "My dad saw it for the first time yesterday. He said he thought Edward would be very pleased with it."

"I'm sure he will be very proud of it," Bella assures her. She would be _more_ than pleased to have something like that of her mother. With new sympathy and compassion for Alice—and, especially for Edward—Bella reaches out and gives her hand a firm squeeze.

"I hope so."

With Alice by her side, Bella resumes her assessment of the art display. The next piece she spots is a framed charcoal sketch—the silhouette of a female figure, her hands placed delicately on her pregnant belly. Her face is shadowed so that her features are obscured, but there is something about her stance and the way her arms encircle her stomach that evokes a sense of love and joy. It is titled simply enough, _Mother_.

She feels Alice's chin upon her shoulder. "This is my mom when she was pregnant with me and my twin brother Emmett," she explains. "We never got a chance to meet her. She died giving birth to us."

"I'm so sorry," Bella says earnestly.

"Sometimes I feel like I know her in a way, from all of my dad's pictures and stories of her. She was an amazing person. He always made certain that Emmett and I understood that."

Bella's chest suddenly aches with the pangs of grief and remembrance. She swallows hard, determined to maintain her fortified composure, and speaks after several seconds. "It's absolutely beautiful, Alice. I image she would be very proud of your work."

"Thank you. My dad and Emmett were happy with it, and that's all I could ask for."

"Does Emmett live here too?" Bella changes the subject and turns to face Alice.

"No, he lives in California. He graduated from UCLA in May. He's an athletic trainer there, and now we only ever see him on holidays," she sighs longingly; then, her face brightens again.

"We're polar opposites. Jas and Edward always joke about our differences. Emmett's this big, burly football player," she chuckles, flexing her arm to demonstrate, "and I'm a little artsy 'fairy', they say."

With a roll of her eyes, she shoots a sideways glance at Jasper, anticipating a comment.

"Well, you two may be polar opposites in that respect, but you _both _can outtalk anyone else I know," Jasper interjects, curling his arm around her shoulders. "Seriously, when those two are together," he directs his wide blue eyes at Bella, "you can't get a word in edgewise. Talk, talk, talk," he says, flapping his hand open and shut to prove his point.

With a teasing pout on her lips, Alice huffs and pinches Jasper's side.

"Well, it's true!" he defends and nuzzles her hair with his nose. She quickly begins giggling again, showing him that all is forgiven, and Bella joins in their amusement.

"What's so funny?"

All at once, their laughter is interrupted by the soft, velvet tone of another voice—a welcome sound. Their attention is abruptly directed at the recent arrival of a familiar, lanky form. The mop of hair on his head sticks up in chaotic copper strands—his face stubbled with the five o'clock shadow that he wears all day. But as disheveled as his appearance may be at the time, he somehow manages to exude a rough sort of beauty.

"It's about time you got here!" Alice hops toward Edward, her arms outstretched, and he bends forward to meet her. With all the force available in her tiny arms, she envelopes him in a tight hug which he returns, a warm smile gracing his lips.

"Sorry I'm late, Alice," he says, his apology muffled by her hair.

Once Alice releases him from her firm embrace, she steps aside. Jasper moves in and gives a playful jab to Edward's left arm. When their brief words of friendly, male banter are exchanged, he turns to see Bella. Green eyes lock with brown, and the corners of his mouth upturn in the smooth curve of a polite smile.

"Hello, Bella."

"Hi, Edward," she replies, her voice sounding more timid than she'd intended. She resents how it always takes her a few minutes to construct a façade of confidence, to face his striking presence with some semblance of charisma.

Tucking his hands in his dark denim pockets, he saunters closer to her. The gray fabric of his shirt clings, revealing the masculine contours of his chest. His short sleeves offer visibility to the subtle musculature of his long arms. Her eyes trace his straight and curved lines before returning to his face. And then she remembers…

The gray t-shirt he had loaned her that night after the alley incident is still folded on her dresser. Admittedly, on a few bad nights, she's allowed herself to sleep in it, taking solace in the feeling of being wrapped in a laundry detergent and nicotine scent different from her own. She's been meaning to wash it and return it, but somehow—every time she heads out the door for another visit to Port Angeles—the thought slips her mind.

"I see our little Picasso has taken you hostage for the day," he says to her before casting a teasing grin at his cousin.

Before Bella can reply, Alice pipes up. "She was glad to come, thank you very much!"

"Of course, I was," Bella jumps in. "Your cousin is very talented," she tells him. He nods his head in agreement, and Alice shines a thankful smile in her direction.

"Come on, Edward," she says and takes his hand in hers. "I can't wait any longer. I've got something very special to show you." Her spritely face glows with exuberance as she leads him back toward the intended painting.

Sensing Alice's need to reveal her heartfelt masterpiece to Edward alone, Jasper and Bella refrain from following behind them. Instead, they casually examine the exhibit of ceramics that the older gentleman had been observing upon their arrival.

They discuss their favorite music and books, what they like about the Olympic weather and what they don't. She finds Jasper incredibly easy to talk to. For the most part, he says little. Instead, he allows his mouth to stay closed and his broad, azure eyes to remain open and trained on her as he listens intently. His presence is calming, and it becomes clear to her just how he and Alice are so compatible. He is her complimentary half, and she is his. Despite her cynicism about love and relationships in general, she begins to wonder if that sort of connection might ever be tangible for her as well. But the notion is quickly swept aside…

"Edward, wait!" Alice's voice calls from across the room. "I thought—" But her words are cut short by the deluge of emotion knotting in her throat.

Suddenly, Bella feels the air move around her as Edward's body briskly passes by her. The scent of him lingers in the wake of his hurried pace.

"I'm sorry, Alice, but I have to go." His teeth clench in an effort to stifle the quaking in his voice. Before Bella can begin to process the scene before her, he has already stormed through the exit.

Jasper and Bella lock incredulous glances briefly before shifting their concerned eyes toward Alice. The crestfallen expression on her face is enough to crumble the most hardened of hearts. Surely, Edward could not have been offended by the portrait. How could he be so cold as to rebuff Alice's kind effort?

"Excuse me," she says in a tearful tone before retreating to the ladies' room down the hall.

Bella watches, helpless and perplexed, as Jasper follows after her, feeling more out of place in that moment than she has in a very long time.

**

* * *

A/N: **So, hopefully some good info was revealed here. Indeed, Forks has not been a happy place for the Cullens or the Masens. Maybe less sadness in the next chapter? We'll see! Reviews are better than borrowed Edward t-shirts…well, almost. ;-)


	14. Chapter 14: Scratching the Surface

**A/N: **Wow, I am totally blown away by the sweet reviews I've been getting! The only bad thing about having a new slew of readers & great response is that I'm a little freaked out about disappointing you guys. I'm going to try my damndest not to! The mystery behind E & B's tragedies is hopefully much more complex than you think. Enough rambling…Enjoy this one; I sure did! :)

**Chapter Fourteen: Scratching the Surface**

The ambient noise of diner dishes and casual chatter is not enough to disrupt her continuous contemplation of the past few weeks' events. Sunday had been a welcome retreat, and although the ending had been unexpected and somewhat disturbing, it was still one of the brightest days she'd had in months. But now there are riddles and questions and answers that only lead to more questions. New secrets have been unearthed about this enigmatic family from Forks. The pain of a darkened past still haunts them—_one_ of them, in particular.

The image of the canvas and the ghost eyes painted upon it is burned into her brain. She sees it every time she closes her tired eyes before bed. She saw the sorrow that marred Edward's handsome face as he fled from the gallery. The black and blue emotion had been as apparent as the scar on her forehead. Scars. He has many permanent, pink jagged marks of his own, it seems. And then there was the brokenhearted expression superimposed upon Alice's angelic face. Her good intentions, her talent and effort, had all resulted in an unforeseen emotional calamity.

Nearly three days have passed since her outing, and still her thoughts are submerged in a swirling pool of someone else's troubles. Admittedly, focusing on decoding Edward's history has given her refuge from her own miserable ruminations. Wednesday begins routinely. It includes her usual exercises of navigating through the maze of tables and chairs, entering and exiting the kitchen's swinging door, and avoiding Jessica's mindless prattle. By three o'clock that afternoon, while she is refilling the napkin dispensers on each table, something unforeseen occurs.

The cell phone she keeps in her back pocket—not that anyone ever actually calls her on a regular basis—begins buzzing relentlessly with an unfamiliar number on the screen. Prepared to spend no more than ten seconds telling the caller that they've dialed the wrong number, she doesn't bother excusing herself from the dining area for privacy.

"Hello," she mumbles unenthusiastically.

"Bella?" Her recognition of the mellifluous voice is instantaneous, and her body's tingly reaction is just as fast.

"Yes, who is this?" she asks innocently, knowing full-well the identity of the male voice on the other line.

He clears his throat nervously. "Bella, this is Edward Masen," he clarifies. "I hope you don't mind, I got your number from Alice."

"No, I don't mind," she says, trying to sound indifferent. "What's up?"

Clutching the phone to her ear and biting back a blushing smile, she walks hurriedly through the kitchen and exits out the back door. She is clueless as to the purpose of this call, but whatever it is, it's none of Cal or Jessica's business. Leaning back against the cool brick exterior, she listens intently.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day. Things got a little awkward…" He trails off, sounding as if there is more he wants to say. She waits several seconds for him to continue, but deduces he is waiting for her to say something.

"Don't worry about it, Edward," she dismisses. "There's nothing to apologize for." Not to _her_, at least. If he obtained her number from Alice, then he must have spoken with her since Sunday. The notion brings a sense of relief to Bella. Perhaps the two cousins have mended any misunderstandings about that day. She hopes.

"It was rude of me to storm out the way I did without saying goodbye," he continues. "I hope I didn't offend you."

She shakes her head against the phone, as if he can see her response. "Not at all," she assures him.

There is a long pause—an uncomfortable silence that reminds her of that night in his apartment after her fateful rescue.

"Listen, Bella, I—" he releases a puff of air as his words break off again. "I wanted to ask you if you'd like to have dinner with me sometime this week. I meant to ask you Sunday, but… Maybe I could explain everything better in person."

Entirely caught off-guard, her mouth hangs agape, her lips twitching in an attempt to form a response. This invitation is far from what she expected.

Mistaking her silence for rejection, he interrupts before she can reply. "If you don't want to, that's perfectly fine. I under—"

"No!" she interjects with louder force than she had intended. "Dinner sounds great."

A smile colors his voice, and when she hears it, it brings a curve to her own lips. "Would Thursday night be good for you?"

"Yeah, Thursday is fine," she accepts. "What time?"

"Whatever works for you, Bella. My schedule at the bar is pretty flexible."

_I'll bet_, she thinks amusedly.

"I get off work at seven…so eight o'clock?"

"Eight's perfect. Do you like Italian?"

"Yes."

"I know a little place downtown called Bella Italia. It's not formal," he explains, "but the pasta is excellent."

"Mmm, pasta sounds really good right about now," she says. She rarely eats lunch, and her Pop-Tart breakfast wore off hours ago.

Her remark extracts a small chuckle from his mouth. "Yes, it does."

Cal suddenly pops his head out the back door and cranes his neck to see Bella leaning against the brick wall, cell phone to her ear. When she meets his disapproving scowl, she reluctantly decides to end her call.

"Well, I've got to get back to work," she sighs. "See you tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow," he says. "Bye, Bella."

***

Thursday brings with it a fingernail-nibbling anticipation and impatience that she's felt only on rare occasions. With a little coaxing, she manages to convince Cal to let her leave work an hour early. The minute she steps through Charlie's door, she dashes upstairs to try and fix whatever part of her appearance that she perceives as broken. She dresses in an ensemble appropriate for semi-casual dining—the most flattering pair of jeans she owns and a blue sweater suitable for the chill of an early October evening. She even dons a pair of heeled boots—the kind that are chic and cause a girl to walk with slightly more confidence than she would in a pair of flats. After nearly an hour of anxious preparation, she quickly scribbles a note for her snoozing father and leaves the house.

The restaurant is easy enough to find; she's passed by it on her previous visits to Port Angeles. After learning from past mistakes, she parks her Chevy in a well-lit area downtown with plenty of other vehicles. When she rounds the corner in the direction of her destination, she begins breathing deeply, willing herself to approach this rendezvous with a calm sensibility.

And then she sees the restaurant sign—_Bella Italia_—and catches sight of the guy standing under it. He does not see her at first; his head is down and his hands are shoved into his pockets. When he senses her advancing presence, his head snaps up in attention, and a warm smile graces his lips.

"Hey, Edward," she speaks first, crossing her arms in front of her chest for a little extra fortitude.

"Bella," he grins. "Good to see you again."

"You too."

Her eyes eagerly take in the sight of him, quickly absorbing the details in the glow of the streetlights. He is not the same disheveled form that had walked into the art gallery four days ago. The trademark disarray of his red-brown hair is slightly tamer. The stubble that usually shadows his jaw is now gone, and for a moment, she can't decide which version of his face she prefers. His fresh, clean-shaven countenance appears younger, more boyish, but attractive all the same. And when the pure, white gleam of his perfect teeth peeks through his crooked smile, she realizes that it doesn't matter.

Instead of the t-shirt and jeans she's used to seeing on him, he is dressed in a crisp, blue button-up and a pair of khaki slacks. Clearly, he'd taken his time getting ready and made an effort just as she had.

"Shall we?" he asks as he holds the door open for her. Regardless of the strong, womanly independence she prides herself in having, she can't find a damn thing wrong with happily accepting his chivalrous action.

The hostess seats them at a table for two in the back, a location with a feeling of isolation from the rest of the diners. Somewhere between the complimentary breadsticks and the delivery of their salads, the introductory small talk dwindles. Once the polite "how have you beens" is played out, there is ample time left for complex explanations and divulgence of personal histories. Hesitation is the only cause for delay.

"Look, Bella," he finally begins. "I don't know how much Alice has told you, but—" His slender fingers fidget with the corner of his napkin; his focus trained on the depleted salad plate in front of him.

"Edward," she interrupts softly. She stares at his creased forehead, willing him to look at her, and he does. "She didn't go into any details. I asked her about the painting before you showed up. She told me who they were and that they'd passed away a few years ago," she says. "That's _all_."

"Alice asked me a couple of months ago if it would be alright for her to paint them. I meant it when I told her I was fine with the idea. They would've been thrilled to be a part of one of Alice's paintings." Shaking his head minutely, he releases a breath, and continues. "You'd think after three years, a person would be able to deal with seeing a simple picture. I honestly didn't expect to have that kind of reaction, but there was just _something_ about it."

With an understanding nod, she agrees. There _was_ something about that painting. The jubilant glow of their faces, their innocence and vivacity, and for it all to have been cut short so soon… Alice had meant to preserve a happy moment in the lives of two loved ones, but instead she had reawakened the mourning of the brevity of that happiness.

"I'm sure Alice understands," Bella reassures him.

Nodding his head, he replies, "We had a long talk afterwards. All is normal again." A smile reappears on his mouth.

"You two are very close, aren't you?"

"Like brother and sister," he chuckles. "There's no way I would've made it without her and my uncle Carlisle. And Emmett and Jasper, too."

"What about your dad?" she inquires curiously.

The muscle in his jaw tightens; the flash of sorrow she'd witnessed at the gallery makes an abrupt encore.

"He's not around anymore. My parents got divorced my senior year."

"Oh," is all she manages to say, but she senses that they have more in common than she originally thought. Broken homes and loss.

And then, Bella is struck by the realization of his purpose for visiting Forks that day—not only for the errand of returning her jacket, but for a more important mission. She understands—although it should've been obvious after Sunday's elucidation—the meaning behind those two, singular flowers.

"That's why you were in Forks that day, isn't it? The flowers in your car," she says. "They were for them."

Caught off-guard, he looks at her confusedly, and then he remembers. He'd noticed her pausing to glance through his passenger side window that day in the diner parking lot.

"Yes," he acknowledges, somewhat surprised by her observation. "My family is buried there. For the longest time, I couldn't bring myself to see their graves. But somehow, it helps—more so than you'd think it would." He pauses, scratching at his brow nervously. "As morbid as it may sound, it's nice to still feel close to them in some way."

"You're lucky," she tells him, suddenly becoming aware of an option that is beyond her attainability at this distance.

With knitted brows, he asks, "Why do you say that?"

"You can visit your family's graves anytime you want," she says wistfully. "I don't have that option. My mom is buried two thousand miles away." She doesn't say this to elicit his sympathy. It is a realization uttered aloud—more to herself than to him—and immediately, she regrets making the comment.

The puzzled expression on his face reminds her that he knows nothing of her past—doesn't have a clue as to what she is talking about.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you," she apologizes. "You were saying about your family?"

"No, no. We've discussed me enough for one evening. I want to hear your story." He takes a drink from his glass of water and leans in closer. "I know you're not from Forks."

"Definitely _not _from Forks," she declares. "Mississippi, actually. My mom was killed in a car accident in March. That's when I came here to live with my dad."

"I'm sorry to hear that." His words are filled with heartfelt sympathy. "The pain is still new to you," he states knowingly. Even three years has not been long enough for him to be completely numb to the sting of his own loss.

"Yes." With a swallow of that frustrating knot, she tries to decide which change of subject she could possibly make to avoid any awkward reaction of her own. When the waiter finally brings their entrees, she tells him "Thank you", and she means it.

_Saved by pasta_, she jokes inwardly.

The remainder of the meal is spent savoring the Italian cuisine in front of them and speaking of more casual, lighthearted topics like music and books. He comments about how pasta primavera is his favorite—the dish he always orders whenever he comes here. And she remarks on how this fettuccini alfredo is far more appetizing than any frozen dinner version she's ever tasted. In the ninety minutes they spend eating and talking, a few bricks of the wall surrounding Edward are removed. However, for the most part, Bella's self-assembled fortress remains intact.

Outside the restaurant, in the chilly night air, they say their goodbyes. A feeling of reluctance occupies the gap between them. She battles her unwillingness to leave him, to bid farewell to such a pleasant evening. This is the nearest to genuine contentment that she's experienced in God only knows how long, and she hates for it to end. But unbeknownst to her, Edward laments their departure just as greatly as she does.

As she turns to leave in the direction of her parked Chevy, she hears his voice call for her once more.

"Hey, Bella."

"Yeah?"

After running his hand through his hair for the first time that night, he makes another request for her company.

"I'm playing at the bar tomorrow night. If you don't have any other plans, maybe you could stop by," he suggests with a hint of optimism detectable in his tone.

She reflexively tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and beams a playful grin. "I'll see if I can fit that into my schedule."

**A/N: **So, was your first "date" with Edward pretty good? He & Alice spend a lot of time Googling restaurants & cafés in the PA area. Ain't ya glad Bella didn't order mushroom ravioli this time? *giggle* And praise the Lord, the whole flower thing has been completely explained, but you have no idea how much more has yet to be revealed. Truly, it's exhausting just thinking about it! Love some feedback, my darlins.

*******Review, complain, tell me a joke, I don't care; I like it all.


	15. Chapter 15: Quick Fix

**A/N: **Apologies for it taking longer than usual to update—midterms suck! Also, I'm on Twitter (hell only knows why) but you can follow me if you like; maybe I'll say something funny. Link is on my profile. Thank you for all the lovely reviews; I eagerly read each & every one of them. They sing to my heart like Robward! Lots of dialogue in this one & I hope it's not too boring for you guys. Happy reading, chick-a-dees! See ya down below ;)

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Quick Fix **

By ten on Friday night, that red clunker is pulling into the empty spot of a downtown Port Angeles parking lot. The hour drive is becoming second nature to her now. Each time Bella enters the little waterside city, she feels her stomach flutter with a fierce craving for light and sound and laughter. A yearning for the yellow glow of the bar lights. A hunger for the warm depths of a velvet voice. A longing to learn the mysteries behind a drink-mixing songster.

But this trip is different. She has received an invitation—not by the friendly Alice, of whom she has grown quite fond—but by Edward himself. She cannot deny her attraction to him; it is part shallow, physical appeal and part curiosity to uncover the secrets of his past. And of course, there is the fact that his vocal talent has the near-supernatural ability to temporarily anesthetize her emotional aches and pains. Taking away the bad and leaving the good. He is a quick fix, an evanescent escape, a distraction from the mundanity that is her life now.

When she walks through the double doors of Cullen's bar, she hears him before she can see him. His song story has just begun, and she is right on time. The crowd is thick tonight—a sea of the young and not-so-young, tourists and locals and passers-through. The classic Hollywood Carlisle has taken Edward's place behind the bar. Alice and the other waitress—_Kate_, her nametag reads—are weaving through the tables, beaming and chatting all the while. When Alice sees Bella from a distance, she acknowledges her with a wink and a wave. The gesture brings a sense of relief to Bella. That doleful expression from the gallery has been erased, replaced by Alice's usual radiance.

Bella continues forward. A brief survey of the room reveals occupied barstools and full tables, except for a small table near the front. It's too close to the stage for her personal comfort; she wants to be close enough to watch him, but not so close that he _knows_ she is watching him. Nonetheless, it is one of the only vacant chairs, and she takes it.

He is oblivious to her presence for the first few minutes after she takes her seat. He is too caught up in strumming strings and mouthing lyrics for the moment. Her enchanted eyes study all the visible details of him, the details no one else in the audience will care to notice. The way the muscles in his arm flex ever so slightly as he plays his guitar; the way he licks his lips between verses; the way his long lashes cast shadows under his eyes in the stage light. Her right thumbnail won't survive the first two songs with the way she's gnawing at it in her absentminded reverie. When it finally breaks, she won't be able to feel it because, by then, he will have lulled her into that false inebriation that she loves so much.

It doesn't take long. Another chorus and she is gone…succumbing to the tingles that eventually guide her to sweet repose. Lyric by lyric, he numbs the throb of bad memories and work stress. Between songs, he lifts his head to cast a cursory glance at the audience, and the corner of his eye catches sight of her. The little diner waitress he hoped would come is sitting by the wall all alone—staring straight through him. When their eyes meet, her lips curve against her will, and for an instant, his mouth mirrors hers.

The hands of the clock tick away the hours and the songs. No one in the crowd pays any attention to the subtle smiles and glimpses that pass between the waitress and the bartender. There might as well be no more than two lone bodies in the room. Only they know—only they feel—the _something_ lingering in the smoky air between his stage and her table. But neither one can describe it, and neither one is certain if the other senses it too.

* * *

Just after midnight—after the guitar is silent and the crowd is thinning—Edward walks toward her table.

"Mind if I join you?" he requests, running his fingers through his shaggy mop of copper hair.

With a shake of her head and a smile, she replies, "Not at all."

He straddles the chair opposite her and rests his arms on the back of it. She leans closer, her chin placed thoughtfully in her palm.

"So," he starts with a teasing grin, "you found time in your schedule to drop by tonight."

Bella laughs, recalling her parting words from the previous night. "Yeah. I'm glad I did," she nods. "Nice performance up there."

"Thank you. It's something to keep me from going insane, I guess."

She knows exactly what he means. The music and the bar is his distraction—a welcome reprieve from too much empty time to think and feel everything that a wounded soul longs to forget. As annoying and stressful as it can be at times, the diner serves not only as her financial support, but also as her refuge.

"I understand, believe me," she nods empathetically. "The diner keeps my head busy."

"I'm sure working with Jessica Stanley keeps you entertained," he jokes. "We had a class together in high school, and she talked my ear off," he says with raised brows. Worry abruptly creases his forehead. "I'm sure she's given you an earful about me."

Bella's eyes roll and her lip curls in indignation. "No. I don't talk to her unless I absolutely have to."

With a hint of relief in his voice, Edward asks, "I take it you two aren't best friends, then?"

"_Hell naw!" _she scoffs disgustedly. "Ugh, she is such a _bitch_."

A hearty laugh springs from his lips, like the carefree chuckle of a child. The amusement illuminates the emerald gleam that lies beneath each thick fringe of his lashes and reveals a bright row of perfect teeth.

Puzzled, she asks, "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry," he says, trying to regain composure. "It's just that I have never heard the words _hell _and_ bitch _pronounced with more than one syllable before."

_Nice, Bella. You probably just sounded like a hillbilly_, she chides inwardly.

The apples of her cheeks redden at her blunder. Her lazy tongue often makes ill-fated attempts to keep pace with the local cadence. Whenever a hint of Southern nectar drips from her lips, it always leads to questions about where she came from and why she is here. She wants nothing more than to blend in with the Olympic culture, to become as commonplace as the evergreens and overcast sky. She tries to be mindful not to drop her g's or let a casual "y'all" slip from her mouth, but sometimes she forgets.

"I noticed your accent before," he says, still grinning. "It gets thicker when you're pissed off."

"Oh, Lord," she mumbles. Trying to conceal her embarrassment, she quickly diverts her eyes and flushed face to the table.

"Hey, Bella, I was only kidding" he says apologetically and lightly touches her arm. With a playful smirk, he adds, "I like that little drawl of yours."

His flattery elicits a deeper blush from her cheeks, but her humor returns quickly to hide it. "Why thank you, Mr. Masen," she responds, imitating her best Scarlett O'Hara and batting her lashes.

Both are oblivious to their surroundings—too caught up in their harmonious laughter to notice anyone or anything else. The chairs and barstools gradually become vacant as the last patrons exit the front door. Neither one sees Alice, Kate, or Carlisle going through their closing routines for the night. As she clears empty bottles from the countertop, Alice nudges her father's arm and shoots a pointed glance at the occupied table across the room. Carlisle acknowledges her with a nodding smile and continues his work. Once Alice sees a break in their conversation, she glides toward them and lets her hand fall delicately on Bella's shoulder.

"Oh, Alice, I'm sorry. Do you need my help cleaning up?" Edward starts to rise from his chair, but Alice stops him.

"No," she snaps quickly. "I just came over to see if Bella wanted anything."

With a shake of her head, Bella replies, "No, I'm fine. Thanks, Alice."

"Okay," she chirps. Before she turns to leave them, she flashes a wink that only Edward can see. He casts a split-second glare at her and returns his focus to the dark chocolate eyes in front of him.

With a wily smirk, he asks, "Are you sure you don't want Alice to bring you a cherry Coke?"

"Oh, shut up," Bella retorts in mock anger. "I can handle myself, thank you very much. I know my limitations," she assures him.

_Charlie's the one with the problem. Probably passed out by now, anyway,_ she thinks as she glimpses at her watch.

"Do you need to leave?" Edward asks, taking notice of her action. There is a trace of something like disappointment in his voice, but she doesn't pick it up.

"No. Charlie doesn't care how late I stay out."

"Charlie?" His heavy brows knit together questioningly.

"My dad," she clarifies.

An abrupt wave of revelation crashes over his face in that moment. She studies the sudden change in his expression trying to ascertain whether his reaction is good or bad, but he speaks before she has time to figure it out.

"Charlie _Swan_," he nods understandingly. "Chief Swan is your father," he states, suddenly connecting the dots. Everyone in Forks—or from Forks—knows the chief of police.

"Oh, God, please tell me he never arrested you?" She asks the question jokingly but winces at the possible answer. When he starts chuckling, she exhales a sigh of relief.

"Not me," he replies. "My cousin Emmett had a few run-ins with him. He liked to stir up trouble—bit of a prankster. Nothing serious, though," he assures her.

Her giggle matches the rhythm of his laugh, and once again, they lose themselves in mutual amusement. When the comical moment passes, Edward clears his throat, and his tone becomes more serious.

"Chief Swan is a good guy," he tells her.

While considering the meaning behind his words, she observes the way he traces the wood grain of the table with his long fingers. Maybe Edward thinks Charlie is a 'good guy' because he'd been lenient with his wayward cousin. Maybe he'd gotten Edward's little Volvo out of a few speeding tickets. All of Forks seems to have respect for her father. Maybe it's because of his authority, or maybe they all see something she does not.

There are so many _maybes_ about Charlie.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know," she mutters. "This is the most time I've ever spent with him." Her fingers begin mimicking his, following the intricate patterns of the grains. "We don't talk that much."

She looks up from her imaginary tabletop drawing and is met with a penetrating stare. He studies her face as if attempting to decipher a secret code—wanting to learn more about her but afraid to push.

A yawn escapes her mouth involuntarily. In five more hours she'll have to be awake and in the shower, ready to serve bacon and eggs to Cal's customers. Going back to Charlie's house is the last thing she wants to do right now, but she knows she must. She resents the cruelty of time, how the hours always seem to tick away faster when she doesn't want them to.

"Come on," he says. As he stands, he offers her his hand. "Let me walk you to your car before you fall asleep."

She clasps the soft warmth of his palm and lets him gently pull her to her feet. When he releases her grasp, she immediately mourns the loss of contact. She wraps her new jacket around her, preparing to enter the October chill, and follows him out the door.

When they step onto the sidewalk, he pauses. From his jeans pocket, he pulls a small carton and asks, "Will this bother you?"

"No," she says with a shrug. "Go ahead."

As they walk side by side, she watches the lit cigarette that dangles precariously from his lips. Every time he takes a drag, he releases a gray cloud from the corner of his mouth into the cool night air. He is careful not to let the smoke float in her direction, just in case his nervous habit offends. She stares at the smoldering stick, glowing orange in the darkness between his fingertips, and wishes for something to keep her own hands busy. She shoves them into her pockets and concentrates on matching his long-legged stride.

"Can I ask you something?" Her voice interrupts the repetitive sound of their footsteps on the concrete.

"Sure," he says, flicking ash onto the ground.

"Why were you so cold to me that night in the bar?"

She reflects on their first face-to-face encounter several weeks ago. He had taken her drink order, sung his songs, and shown her a cold shoulder when Alice attempted to introduce her. His aloof behavior had caught her off-guard that evening. The rude rebuff had withdrawn the comforting Novocain that his crooning voice had injected. But ever since then, for some reason unbeknownst to her, there has been a change in his demeanor.

A fresh swirl of smoke billows from his open mouth. Remorseful, he pinches the straight-line bridge of his nose with his free hand and offers his best apologetic answer.

"I'm sorry about that. It was nothing personal," he explains, his voice somber and regretful. "I've spent so much time in my head, sometimes I forget how to act around people."

Skeptical, she questions his response. "But that doesn't make any sense. You deal with people all the time back there. You sing on stage in front of an entire audience."

"A lot of people come in and out of that bar. Some talk; some don't. Most don't have anything to say that is worth listening to," he elaborates, "especially not after a few drinks."

He pauses to scratch nervously at his jaw line. The red-brown stubble he shaved off yesterday before their dinner date is already making a reappearance.

"And as for the stage, well, that's different," he continues. "No one sees _me _up there. I'm just a guy with a guitar."

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, stifling the urge to tell him that he is so much more. That his voice and his music and the mysterious allure that surrounds him in general are what keep reeling her back to this town. But she can't say it aloud, can't explain her pathetic addiction to the escapism that he provides.

"Honestly, when Alice introduced you, I figured you were just another one of her friends stopping by. I didn't think I'd see you again, and then…" His words trail off and his feet stop. Bella halts her movement as well and waits for him to continue.

"Then there you were again that night in the alley." He tosses the finished cigarette to the ground and meets her brown-eyed gaze again. With a slow motion of his fingers, he lightly brushes a stray lock of hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. "I can't get you out of my head, Bella Swan."

That's the moment when everything stops—the wind blowing around them, the ambient noise of distant cars and people, and for an instant, even her breathing. It all just—stops.

She is tempted to reach out to him, to glide her fingertip across his smooth lips, to caress his wind-pinked cheek with the back of her hand. But she doesn't move. Can't. Instead, she stands like a statue, listening to his honeyed words as they resound in her head—a dulcet echo that she knows she'll replay before she falls asleep later that night.

Finally, she wills her body to move. She takes half a step closer and touches the hem of the cotton fabric hanging at his waist.

"I still have your shirt," she confesses in a near whisper. Although the scent of him has faded from the material, it has not stopped her from slipping it over her body before bed each night. This, too, she wants to say aloud, but she cannot.

Her favorite crooked grin—so timid and sweet, yet tinged with mischief—sweeps across his mouth. The tip of his thumb ghosts across her fair cheekbone. "Keep it," he says softly. "It looks better on you, anyway."

Her blushing smile is all he needs. He leans forward, bending slightly to reach her, and plants a chaste kiss on her forehead. For several seconds, his lips linger while he breathes in the faint vanilla fragrance of her hair. When he pulls away, there is silence between them. She laces her fingers with his, and they continue down the concrete path, hand-in-hand.

With slow, reluctant steps, they reach the parking lot, and thus, the evening's end. Bella fishes her keys from her purse, pretending to have trouble finding them just to spend a few extra seconds in his presence. The rusty door gives her its usual difficulty, squeaking loudly in protest as she tugs it open. As she moves to hoist her petite frame inside the cab, she suddenly loses her balance—the consequence of slippery shoes and jittery nerves. Before she can fall to a cold landing on the wet pavement, his arm catches her.

"You alright?" he asks, concern coloring his tone.

She peeks over her shoulder at him and forces a smile. "Yep, just uncoordinated."

"Here," he says, "let me help you."

She feels his warm hands grip either side of her waist, just above her hips, as he gently lifts her up into the driver's seat. His proximity—the heat from his touch and the cadence of his breath—creates a welcome sensation, a fiery rush through her veins that quells the chill in the air. Once she is settled securely behind the wheel, she cranks the engine, letting it rattle and groan like it always does at first, and turns to steal a final glimpse of him.

Before Edward shuts the heavy door between them, he asks, "Would it be alright if I called you sometime?"

"Yeah," Bella nods. "That'd be just fine."

* * *

**A/N: **Big announcement: **LouderThanSirens **has a new fic posted! Check out **To Fear of the Dark**—sounds very interesting! The newest chapter just freaked me the hell out, & I'm sure y'all will enjoy it too! *wiggles eyebrows in lusty anticipation*

So, now that we've gotten to know Eddie a little better, I might start giving you lovely readers a closer look at him; it is 3rd person POV, therefore, I can make that magic happen. I'm very anxious to get some feedback on this one & to know how you like the progress/pace of the story. Do you like this Edward & Bella? Thoughts, comments? I've been getting a lot of questions about when the hell he's actually gonna kiss her, and I promise their first kiss is coming & oh so worth the wait!


	16. Chapter 16: Echo

**A/N: Warning**—I'm reminding you that this story is rated M for a reason. That rating earns validity in this chapter. Thanks to all my readers for their encouraging words & funny comments. All the story alerts/favs are much appreciated as well! I'm very anxious to get to the "nitty gritty" of the story just as much as ya'll are, but I have this thing completely outlined now and refuse to rush it. These two kids have a ways to go, and I hope I can keep you along for the rest of the ride. For now, let's have a little fun, shall we? LouderThanSirens, this first part is for you…just a tease. :D

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Echo**

"Tell me what you need me to do, Bella." The emerald of his eyes is gleaming with an intensity she has not seen before now. He stares intently at her as he waits for her answer, willing to acquiesce to whatever she desires.

"Sing to me," she pleads. "Talk…whisper…touch. I don't care, just take it all away." Grief and desperation are audible in her trembling voice.

The bruised organ in her chest pounds with such vigor that she can feel its steady rhythm in her ears. For months, she thought her heart was dead—silent and still—but now, as he places his palm over her breast, she senses the life force that remains within it. It is weak, but reawakened. It is wounded, but alive.

"You are safe," his melody sings. His soft lips trace the edge of her listening ear, his breath caressing the sensitive skin there.

"But still afraid," she says, hopeless. She wraps her needy arms around him. She clings tightly like a child, fearful and alone.

"You are home," he croons sweetly. He plants a row of tender kisses down her neck, each press of his lips fervent, yet gentle.

She shakes her head against him, disbelieving. "This is not my home."

"It can be." With careful hands, he explores the peaks and valleys of her naked flesh.

She wants to feel this—all of his weight and warmth pressing upon her—and nothing else. Instead, she feels _everything_—the things she wants and the things she wants to forget—and it is too much.

"She is not gone," he hums again. "Always here. Always with you." But his chants of reassurance and love are not enough. His skin upon her skin and the comfort of his closeness just aren't enough.

"You lie," she sobs into his shoulder. A salty deluge of emotion breaches her carefully constructed levee. One by one, the hot tears stream down her cheeks, and she curses each drop.

Slowly, he traces a line from her hip to her knee and wraps her leg around his waist. With breathless need, she curls her leg tighter around him, pulling him closer…seeking completion. He lowers his body compliantly, his weight heavy but welcome on her aching center.

"Let me inside, Isabella."

"Yes," she breathes her tearful consent. "Make it go away."

And with one fluid motion of the beautiful man above her, they unite…moving until their actions become a satisfying rhythm.

***

Bella's sleep-heavy eyes fly open suddenly. She finds herself tangled in damp sheets and kicks and peels until she is free of the binding linens. Her pale skin glistens with a thin layer of sweat; her chest heaves with short, erratic breaths. The faint light of dawn filters through the curtains, removing the shadows of night.

"Damn," she mutters as she yawns and stretches. A glimpse of the alarm clock tells her that she is awake an hour before necessary. Although she could use the extra sleep, she can't find a good reason to curse the dream that has roused her so early. As she rolls onto her side, she becomes hyperaware of the throbbing between her thighs. His voice soothes the pain and sadness, but the rest of him stirs a new feeling entirely. _Desire_.

The mellifluous phrase echoes in her mind: _"I can't get you out of my head, Bella Swan." _

Edward had mouthed those words last night, and the memory of it ignites a fierce blaze of energy that surges through her blood. She clutches the gray cotton on her chest. His shirt. His scent. Him.

She double-checks that her bedroom door is locked. The house is silent. Her eyes flutter closed, and her hand travels to the heat that pulses between her thighs. Flashes of his face—that chiseled jaw and crooked smile, those lustrous green eyes—dance in her head. Image after tantalizing image of his body, or at least what little she has seen of it, flicker behind her lids like a movie. She envisions six feet of near perfection as she massages the swollen nerve bundle through the thin fabric of her underwear. Her imagination lets his fingertips do the work, driving her to a sweet release.

"Mmm, God, Edward." Her blissful moans are muffled by the pillow as she comes down from the temporary high. When her pulse and breathing regulate, she stretches once more and stumbles toward the bathroom for a much needed shower, ready to meet the day.

***

She coasts through the breakfast rush with a carefree glow on her face. When a freckle-faced kid spills his full glass of chocolate milk on the floor, she doesn't sigh or groan in frustration. On her hands and knees, she soaks up the sticky mess with a dishtowel and hardly notices the discomfort it causes her back. She returns to the clumsy child's table with a refilled cup and a smile. She glides swiftly from station to station and balances the serving tray on her palm with newfound grace. Her chipper disposition earns her a little extra in tips, which she happily collects from the tabletops. Not even snide Jessica Stanley can trample her contented mood.

It's a damn good day, and good days have been few and far between for Bella Swan since the cataclysmic events that occurred seven months prior.

She knows who is responsible for the positive change in her demeanor, and quite honestly, she finds it a bit frightening. It is new and unexpected. The memory of his countenance, the echo of his voice, and the phantom feeling of his hand in hers are the drugs catalyzing her endurance today. The rational part of her brain warns her against it. It will not last, but for now, it is all she's got and she's taking it.

When Saturday's single shift is over, she heads back to Charlie's house. As expected, her father is lounging in his favorite recliner with the TV remote in one hand and a cold beer in the other. A grunt and a nod are his acknowledgement of her arrival, which she returns with a small wave of her hand before climbing upstairs. She stretches across her bed and listens to the pitter-patter of the afternoon drizzle on the roof.

There are more questions than there are answers at this point. The mystery that shrouds Edward Masen and his family is driving her mind into a fury of speculation. She mulls over all the details: the painting and Edward's reaction to it, the way Jess and the other customers stared at him that day he came to the diner, and how Charlie refuses to elaborate on the Cullen-Masen history.

His mother Esme and baby sister Rosalie died three years ago—but _how_, she still doesn't know. Apparently, Edward doesn't have much to do with his father anymore, and judging by his icy tone when Bella had asked about him, there seems to be an interesting story there as well. Death and divorce. They are a song and dance that Bella knows all too well by now.

She wants to learn more about this alluring Port Angeles bartender, and it scares the hell out of her that she wants to teach him about her own history. At the bar and during their dinner date, he had reached out to her, offered her a glimpse at his past and his pain. In return, she had shown him some pieces of her own puzzle. There is a connection—some strange magnetism—and she can sense it.

_A fucked-up boy meets a fucked-up girl. Perfect, _she muses.

Forks is a small town. What's stopping her from putting all of her curious worries to rest? In the beginning, she'd tried to prod Charlie for more, but for whatever reason, he wouldn't talk. She knows Jessica would be more than happy to give her an earful about Edward, but that doesn't seem right. She decides that if she is going to learn about him, she doesn't want to do it by way of twisted town gossip. That day at the gallery, Alice said it was not her story to tell.

It is Edward's story to tell, and when the time is right, she will let _him_ tell it.

Sudden, steady vibrations from her back pocket jolt her from her reverie. When she retrieves the buzzing cell phone and looks at the screen, a euphoric grin graces her lips.

"Hey, Edward."

"Bella," he says. "What are you doing tomorrow night?" And before she can answer, the tingles start.

* * *

**A/N: ***peeks nervously from behind hands* This is the first semi-dirty thing that I've ever written, and now I feel all weird & self-conscious. The real citrusy goodness is much further in the future, and yes, it'll be a lot hotter than that little slice above. That ought to hold ya over till then. I'm sorry this was a little short; it will get us from Point A to Point B. Thanks for reading. Please let me know if you've found any good fics lately; I'm always looking for something new to read.


	17. Chapter 17: Wonderwall

**A/N: **First off, hope you guys had a happy Halloween; the holiday is the reason for my lateness—needed time to recover. For some reason, I kept hearing Ryan Adams version of "Wonderwall" while I was inventing this whole scene (hence the title). It really sets the mood, I think. Just a suggestion. :D

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Wonderwall**

"What're you getting all fixed up for?" Charlie stares questioningly at his daughter through the open bathroom door. In that moment his woeful eyes catch sight of something that tugs the frayed strings of his heart. It's the way she holds her mouth, just so, as she carefully applies her mascara that reminds him so painfully much of the woman he loved—_still_ loves.

"I'm hanging out with a friend tonight," she hedges. "I'll be in Port Angeles—don't know what time I'll be back."

From the corner of her eye, she checks her father's reaction. With a shrug of his shoulders, Charlie mumbles something like "alright, be careful" and shuffles down the stairs to re-enter the world of ESPN football.

Balanced on her tip-toes, she stands in front of the mirror, her nose nearly touching the glass, giving her reflection one final, pick-apart examination. She has spent the last two hours of this Sunday evening trying to perfect what she perceives as a hopeless cause. She keeps it simple, though. The shadow and liner are light and only a hint of blush; no flatiron, gel, or spray on her hair. With thoughtful precision, she tries to accentuate the good and conceal the not so good. The whole routine of makeup, hair, and wardrobe is ridiculous and superficial, not to mention time consuming, but she wants so badly to feel confident in his presence. After a dab of lip gloss and one last adjustment of her sweater, Bella decides her work is done. With her purse and keys in hand, she heads out the front door, impatient to reach her destination.

She has a dinner date with Edward at seven. At _his_ apartment. And _he _is cooking. On the phone last night, he'd asked her if she liked seafood, and with an eager appetite, she'd told him yes. His invitation had caught her by surprise. A phone call from him had been expected since their last encounter when he'd requested permission to use her cell number; however, she'd fully anticipated his asking her on a typical date, like to the theater or another restaurant.

A man offering to cook for a woman—frankly, the idea shocks the hell out of her. She has no recollection of Charlie ever having prepared a real meal for her or of one of her mother's boyfriends doing anything but sitting at the table waiting to be served. All of the cynicism aimed at males in general that Renee had worked so diligently to instill in her teenage daughter is still present, even if it is being masked by hormones and attraction for the time being.

Her mind reels with a frenzy of mixed emotions and chemicals, and for once, the anxiety in her chest has nothing to do with memories of home. Breathe out, breathe in.

"It's just dinner. Calm the fuck down, Bella," she lectures the girl staring back at her from the truck's rearview.

During her eastbound drive, she hardly pays attention to the multicolored blur of houses and foliage in her periphery or to the other vehicles traveling the same stretch of highway. Before she knows it, the appropriate travel time has passed and downtown Port Angeles comes into view. Rumbling and rattling, the Chevy rounds the corner, enters the familiar lot hidden behind a row of buildings, and rolls to a stop beside the silver Volvo. And there he stands, leaning against the driver's side door of his car, one hand tucked in his jeans pocket, the other flicking the last of his cigarette to the ground.

He greets her with that bright, knee-buckling smile as he opens the squeaky door for her. "Good to see you again," he says. The pleasant curve of her pouty lips tells him much the same.

"You too." She surveys the near-empty parking lot, an impish smirk playing on her lips. "Were you worried I'd get lost trying to find your building, or were you afraid I might need your heroic services again?"

Stepping closer, he cocks his head to the side and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I figured you wouldn't require my heroics anymore, what with your crafty crowbar skills and all." Childlike chuckles fill the remaining space between them. His laughter—a beautiful burst of humor that springs from his reawakened heart—sends a sudden wave of euphoria crashing over her.

"C'mon," he says, taking her hand and pulling it gently. "Hope you're hungry."

"Starving." She curls her fingers tighter around his hand, savoring the heat of his soft palm, and follows his lead.

As they climb the stairwell to his loft, images of that fateful September night flicker in her mind. She'd been so terrified then, aching and trembling in the black rain, and she'd said a prayer for the first time in months, convinced that that night was her last. But then _he_ appeared…like some saving grace sent from God to grant her yet another chance at life. It had been up these very stairs that Edward had carried her to a place safe and dry. She recalls the sensation of being in his arms, of clinging desperately to his sodden shirt and feeling the accelerated beating of his heart that mirrored her own. Now, here they are again, walking each step hand-in-hand.

The savory aroma of their awaiting meal wafts through the air from the second floor. "Mmm, whatever it is you've got cookin' smells amazing."

"Let's hope it tastes that good," he jokes. With a pleased expression on his face, he holds the door to his apartment open and steps aside for her entry. "After you."

Everything about the broad space looks much the same as it did from the memory of her first visit—exposed brick, hardwood floors, and no interior walls, just designated areas with expensive modern furnishings. To the far left is the bedroom area, but it is different somehow. The white linens are neatly made and the pillows are arranged in proper order. Still, she senses a hanging air of melancholy and loneliness, though not nearly as palpable as it had been the previous month. She eyes that stunning black Steinway in the right corner, its glossy finish reflecting the glow of the freestanding lamp nearby. Hope rises in her that she'll get to hear him play it one day.

Too absorbed in her observations of the surroundings, Bella is oblivious to the longing pair of green eyes fixated on her.

He takes in the sight of her—this girl-woman who's come from the sad, sleepy town he knows too well—standing there with her back to him. Her long tresses, the rich color of coffee without cream, fall in waves just past her slim shoulders. The stark contrast of her dark locks against the pure porcelain of her skin is striking, as if some deity had taken the natural beauty of night and day and bestowed the best of each upon her.

When she feels the heaviness of his gazing eyes upon her, she spins around to face him. "What are you staring at?"

"You," his velvet tone answers. "You look really nice…_beautiful_. I'm an idiot for not having said it sooner." There is no flirtatious smirk on his handsome visage, only sincerity.

After a sharp inhale, she manages a small "thank you." Compliments from high-school guys had always consisted of words like _hot _and _sexy_—empty, meaningless flattery with an ulterior motive—but never once had she been referred to as beautiful by the opposite sex. A simple adjective uttered by Edward Masen and it rocks her world.

Clueless as to what to say next, she breaks the sudden silence. "So…what are we having, bartender?"

He approaches the stove—one of the several stainless steel appliances amongst the sleek, dark wood cabinetry in the small kitchen—and begins pointing out each of the dishes. "Grilled salmon with lemon and herb butter—you did say you liked fish, right?" She nods her head yes, and he continues, grinning. "Rice pilaf and sautéed vegetables." Once the menu is named, he studies her face hopefully.

"Wow, this is…" she shakes her head in awe of the delectable display. "Did you seriously make all of this?"

He scrunches up one side of his face and bites his lip. "Carlisle helped with the planning. Alice supervised." Nervously, he rubs his eyebrow and shrugs. "But yeah, I did the actual cooking part."

When she reaches for one of the two plates on the countertop, he stops her. "Nuh-uh. You sit," he instructs, pointing a finger at one of the stools by the island. With raised brows, she happily complies and takes a seat, resting her elbows on the cool, granite surface.

"What would you like to drink? And don't say cherry Coke 'cause I'm out," he teases.

"Water is fine, thank you."

With her chin nestled in her palm, she watches as he prepares her glass and plate and relishes having someone serve her food and beverage for a change. Her smoldering, brown-eyed stare lingers, attempting to commit his every line and curve to memory. Her fingers twitch with a yearning to comb through that gelled disarray of bronze and honey-brown hair, to trace the strong angle of his chiseled jaw, to stroke the fair skin of his cheek. For the first time, she notices the fine wisps of hair at the base of his neck and wonders if there is more beneath the gray button-up he is wearing…wonders if discovering what the rest of him looks like will ever be a possibility.

_Dangerous thinking_, her mind tells her.

After he places a filled plate in front of her, he takes the seat to her left and casts a sideways glance. She tastes the salmon first, savoring the fresh, lemony flavor, and repays his expectant smile with a contented nod.

"Delicious," she says before taking a forkful of the rice and veggies. "Very impressive."

He smiles his thanks, relieved that she finds his culinary efforts satisfactory. For the remainder of the meal, they swap silly childhood stories and full-mouth grins, keeping a blithe atmosphere. She listens intently, hoping to catch some detail here or there that might illuminate the obscurities of his past—but to no avail. In the time it takes for the plates to become empty, nothing of consequence is learned from one or the other. Once they exhaust their funny, high school anecdotes and various likes and dislikes, a new silence settles in the gap between them. The harder questions remain. Their desire to know more about each other—the black and white, as well as the gray in the middle—thickens the air like the Delta humidity she has long since felt.

Breaking the newly-formed quiet, he rises to clear the dishes from the island and tosses them in the sink. When he denies her offered assistance, she saunters toward the far wall lined with shelves of assorted books and music. She reads each of the worn spines as she peruses the rows of hardcovers first: Twain, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Salinger, Tolstoy, and various contemporary authors.

"You've read all of these?" she asks, intrigued by his vast collection of literature. The shelf looks much like the bookcase in her room at home; so many names and genres…novels, poetry, and short stories.

With casual grace, he strides across the room until he is standing next to her. "Yeah. I read pretty much anything."

"So do I, except my preference is predominantly for the female authors. Austen, Plath, Chopin, Bronte, and a lot of current writers."

She continues to browse, her curious eyes roaming from books to music as she absently twirls a tendril of her hair. Her nose wrinkles upon seeing how his collection of classical artists far surpasses that of the modern bands.

Noticing her unpleasant expression, he chuckles. "What's that look about? You don't like Mozart and Debussy?"

She groans, recalling how her former piano teacher had forced her to repeatedly play _Ode to Joy_ and _Clair de Lune_; much to her mother's dismay, those lessons didn't last long. "Classical is too boring for me. I need words, guitars, drums…"

Upon seeing another genre more to her liking, she halts her movements and smiles. Waters, Hendrix, King, Hooker, and a number of others she recognizes. "Now, _this _is more like it," she says, gesturing toward the section of blues albums.

Surprised by their overlapping musical tastes, he cocks his eyebrow and flashes a crooked grin. "Seriously?" She nods. "I don't know many girls who listen to real blues."

With a hand propped playfully on her hip, she retorts, "Honey, I'm from Mississippi. I'll have you know we_ invented_ the blues."

The slow, sweet tea-infused Southern twang that he adores so much makes a sudden reemergence, reminding him of the inquiries he still has about her origins. He takes a few steps backward until he is leaning on the back of the leather sofa, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"About that," he starts hesitantly, concerned that the subject might be uncomfortable. "Tell me more about Mississippi."

Her brows furrow slightly in confusion. "What do you want to know?"

"Two thousand miles is a long stretch. How did your family end up so spaced out?"

In a few paces, she meets him by the sofa and mimics his position. She shrugs, not knowing where to begin. The story of Charlie and Renee is a complicated tale but one that she is used to telling.

"My mom, Renee, grew up in the Delta. She had an aunt and uncle that lived in Forks—they died when I was little, so I don't really remember anything about them," she clarifies. "She used to spend summers up here visiting them, and that's how she met my dad." She pauses to study his expression, and he nods, encouraging her to continue.

"It was the summer after her high school graduation when they actually got together." Shifting her eyes to the floor, she smirks, remembering the dozens of times that her mom had relayed the story to her. She'd always sugarcoated it, insisting that Bella was in fact a 'happy surprise' and _not _an accident or mistake. "Mom got pregnant, which of course, resulted in a shotgun wedding a couple months later."

Edward releases a quiet chuckle, which Bella reciprocates. "So, you were born in Forks?"

"Yes, but the marriage didn't last very long. She and my dad split before I was a year old. She moved back home and took me with her."

"Are you and your dad very close?"

She sighs heavily and shifts her weight, contemplating how to answer. "I used to visit him for a couple weeks during the summer—more so when I was younger. As I got older, I got busy and stopped coming up here as often. He always sent birthday cards and Christmas gifts, and he'd call to check in now and then. But no," she says while shaking her head, "we've never been all that close, I guess."

"It must've been hard relocating so far away," he says, shuffling his feet.

"It was like being sucked into some alternate universe after my mom died. I moved up here to live with Charlie so I could finish out my senior year. I didn't know anyone but him and a few people around town that I remembered from when I was a kid." As she concludes her explanation, she exhales in relief. So many months have passed since the last time she spoke aloud about such personal details. She finds that Edward's presence, in addition to his voice, has an incredibly mollifying effect on her. Talking to him is so easy…until he asks the wrong questions.

"So, what's keeping you here? Why not move back home?"

What is it that's keeping Bella in the rain-soaked town of Forks, Washington? She's asked herself the same questions repeatedly since graduation, but the answers are too dismal to accept. It is not for lack of options that she hasn't moved forward. She could have started college in August with the rest of her friends back home—after all, that had been the original plan. She is stuck—aimlessly, hopelessly _stuck_—and she only has herself to blame. Returning to Mississippi means she has to acknowledge a cruel, bitter reality—a reality where her mother is truly gone, where Charlie is the closest relative she has left, and where her childhood home is empty. The Olympic rain shields her from that harsh truth. When she is two-thousand, six hundred miles away, she can pretend—pretend that she's just visiting and that Renee is waiting for her to come home.

"Bella?" A hand cups her shoulder and gives her a gentle shake. "Bella, are you okay?" Concern creases Edward's forehead; his face becomes rigid and fretful.

"I'm fine." Her voice is steady, but her lachrymose eyes say otherwise.

"I'm sorry, Bella. It's none of my business." He moves to stand in front of her, the edge of his piercing, green-eyed gaze chipping away at the stone fortress around her. With careful fingertips, he tenderly brushes her cheek, wishing that somehow his touch could assuage whatever pain his inquiries have brought to the surface.

"You know," she says finally, "it is the strangest thing."

"What?"

"I don't think about any of those things when I'm with you—not my mom or Charlie or home. And when I hear you sing…" Her words stop as she shakes her head and chews her bottom lip sheepishly. "There is something about hearing your voice and the way you play your music that makes everything just disappear." She pauses again, timorous about confessing her addiction to the effects of his ethereal, Novocain-laced voice.

"I go numb," she continues, but diverts her eyes back to the hardwood floor at her feet. "And it feels _so_ goodnot to feel all of that, if only for a little while."

When she gathers enough courage to meet his face again, his expression shows something like incredulity. His thick, straight brows are pulled together; the knot in his throat bobs with a nervous swallow as he tries to absorb her words.

Suddenly, she feels very foolish and exposed for her divulgence and attempts to make a recovery. "It's completely absurd," she stammers. "Just pretend like I never—"

"No, it's not." With a nervous hand tangled in his hair, he takes a step back and paces slowly until his uncertain feet lead him to the piano bench. He takes a seat and ghosts his fingers over the ivory keys without making a sound.

"The same thing happens to me. When I sing—when it's just me playing my guitar on stage—I forget everything else. I don't have to think about anything other than hitting the right notes." He rubs his clean-shaven jaw and releases a deep sigh. "And when you're there watching me, it takes it to a whole other level."

As if drawn by some magnetic force, Bella approaches his sitting form, unable to shift her focus from his profile in the glowing lamplight. With timid movements, she joins him on the bench and lays her hand on his arm.

"Play for me," she pleads in a near whisper.

Several silent-heavy moments pass before music fills the room. His eyes remain fixed on the instrument in front of him as he sorts through the archive of memorized songs in his head. In fluid motion, his capable hands begin gliding across the ivory surface, swiftly playing out a familiar melody. Bella recognizes it immediately as an older tune that she's known and loved for years. Completely enthralled, she watches his face—tautened jaw, pursed lips, furrowed brows—as his nimble fingers strike the keys. He does not sing the lyrics, but she hears them—imagines them threaded with the soothing silk of his voice—just the same. Wave upon placating wave of the sweet numbing sensation washes over the surface of her skin.

Bass and treble. Sharp and flat. Major and minor. Black and white. _Passion _and _pain_. Each note is charged with an emotion that no spoken language could ever express with the same accuracy as the musical notes.

When the music and his motions finally cease, the numbness becomes a rush of warm tingles before the cells in her body reawaken fully. He turns toward her, locking the emerald and sepia of their eyes in a time-stopping stare, and reaches up to cradle her cheek. As he gently draws her face closer, she lets her lids flutter shut. His eager mouth meets hers, his lips brushing softly at first before sinking in with more ardent pressure. He pulls away momentarily, studies her smiling face, and shifts his position so that he is straddling the piano bench. She mirrors his movement, understanding his need for better access. She leans forward, permitting him to capture her lips once more. His fingers entwine with her hair as he draws her near and melds his warm mouth to hers. She reaches out to run her hand along the side of his smooth skin and nestles her fingers in the messy locks she's been longing to touch. In synchronicity, their mouths move and their lips part, deepening the kiss until their tongues are dancing in a fervent rhythm.

This is not her first kiss, but definitely her favorite.

Panting and nearly breathless, their busy mouths become still. He rests his forehead lightly against hers, a radiant grin stretched across his face. Each of them knows that stopping now is best; neither is prepared for anything more at this point.

Before they rise from their seated positions, a quiet laugh is shared between them. Although she is reluctant to depart from his blissful presence, she wills her feet to move toward the door. With her hand joined in his, they descend the stairs and cross the parking lot to her truck.

Their lips meet for a final time in a subtle goodnight kiss before she climbs behind the wheel. After she cranks the engine and buckles her seatbelt, he taps at the window and mouths a request.

"Let me know when you make it home," he says. Nodding, she promises to send a text message assuring him of her safe arrival.

Edward steps back, his now cold hands tucked back into his jeans pockets, and watches as the taillights of her Chevy fade into the distance. As she drives off, Bella steals one final glimpse of her bartender in the rearview mirror and smiles at the phantom feeling of his mouth lingering on her still-swollen lips.


	18. Chapter 18: Orange Sky Optimism

**A/N: **THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading & reviewing. I appreciate all the feedback & support; you guys are awesome! Alexi Murdoch's "Orange Sky" was playing in the background while I wrote this…check it out, if you like. I recently introduced my best friend (we'll call her Alice) to the world of Twilight fan fiction. She is cute & tiny & truly my best girlfriend…my real-life Alice. This chapter is for you, darlin! :-D

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Orange Sky Optimism **

On one end of the lumpy, old couch sits Bella curled up with a blanket, a book, and a pensive expression. On the opposite end sits Charlie, his legs propped on the coffee table and his thumb mechanically pressing the buttons on the TV remote. Somewhere between surfing channels and sipping a can of Vitamin R, he decides to initiate an evening chat with his quiet daughter. With a sniff and a wiggle of his moustache, he clears his throat and commences small, but purposeful, talk.

"Work going okay?"

A dark pair of brows, the same shape and color as her father's, raises slightly as Bella peers over her dog-eared paperback. "Work is fine."

"Is Cal treating you alright?" This time Charlie is making eye contact, having shifted his glazed-over focus from the flat screen.

"Yeah," she nods. "Why?" It had been a long and busy Friday at the diner, but nothing she couldn't handle. Cal was Cal, and Jess was her usual discourteous self.

He shrugs his shoulders, inwardly pleased with her positive answers. "Just making sure." And with that, the conversation is complete.

Before she is able to finish reading another paragraph of her novel, she feels a familiar buzzing in her pocket. She keeps her cell phone nearby now, even though she'd never had a reason to before. The friendly texts she receives from Alice and Edward during the day keep her smiling throughout her double shift. An evening call from Edward—filled with swapped stories about the day's events and mindless chatter of favorite books and shows—keeps her occupied before she goes to bed each night.

With a hopeful smirk, she retrieves her phone and flips it open to reveal a new message from Alice: _Jas and I are going to First Beach in La Push on Sunday. Interested in joining us? I miss you. _

She feels a flutter of excitement at the invitation and quickly taps out a response: _Absolutely. And I miss you too. _

Alice replies: _Great! I'll ask Edward if he wants to come too. But I'm pretty sure I already know the answer. _

Several text messages later, the plans are made and Bella is beaming. Five days have passed since Sunday's first kiss—soft and sweet with an undercurrent of spark-filled passion—and she licks her lips every time she replays the scene in her memory. She had the pleasure of experiencing an encore of that kiss on the following Wednesday night. She'd paid a visit to the bar long enough to share some laughter with Alice and to indulge in listening to a few of Edward's soothing songs. With their fingers laced together, he'd walked her to her truck and bid her goodnight by melding his warm mouth to hers. His actions had been less cautious than the first time, and she'd welcomed him with eager lips.

Now, with great expectations, she immediately begins counting down the hours till Sunday.

* * *

Bella awakens to a light mist on early Sunday morning. The precipitation dampens her spirits at first. It has been surprisingly dry all week, and she resents the thought of dreary wetness sabotaging this particular day. She fears that her plans for a beach rendezvous with her friends may be canceled. With fingers crossed, she spends most of the morning casting hopeful glances through the kitchen window. To her relief, her silent prayers are answered when the mist quickly dissipates and the clouds part to reveal several golden rays of sunlight. The crisp, fall temperature settles at a lukewarm fifty-something degrees, rendering it a good day for an evening bonfire on the beach.

Charlie sleeps till after noon, giving Bella an opportunity to accomplish her various chores without excess background noise or interference. In the hours she has alone, she manages to complete two loads of laundry and to return the living room, kitchen, and downstairs bathroom to a reasonable level of tidiness. Charlie's upstairs bedroom and bathroom are his own responsibility as far as she is concerned, so she leaves that area for him. Every time she considers the days' plans, she feels her cheeks flush and her mouth curl into a love-drunk grin.

_Get a grip, girl. You're gonna lose yourself_, she repeats in her head.

When Charlie finally fumbles down the stairs, she moves in the opposite direction to get ready for the outing. She showers and dresses appropriately, all the while listening to the sounds of her father moving about on the bottom floor. He will be leaving shortly to spend the rest of the day with his longtime buddy, Billy, doing whatever it is that men their age do to pass the time on their days off. She knows he won't be home to witness her handsome bartender and his silver Volvo picking her up. During their phone conversation the previous night, Edward had asked her how it all would play out. He'd told her that he was picking her up at four and they would meet Alice and Jasper in La Push. But she could sense the apprehension in his voice when he'd asked about seeing Chief Swan again. She had assured him that it wouldn't be a problem—Charlie would be gone and they could delay any formal introductions for another time.

Would Charlie really care that she's dating someone? Would it even matter who he is? She doesn't know. But she does know that Edward and his family have a history in Forks, and she isn't ready to dredge it up with an awkward father-boyfriend introduction.

_Boyfriend_? _Is that really the case here? _She mulls it over until she hears her father's departure through the front door. For the remainder of the afternoon, she tries to keep busy by reading or watching TV instead of checking the front window for Edward's car every five minutes.

When she finally hears the sound of the Volvo's engine purring outside, she throws on her jacket and meets him just as he is pulling in. She opens the passenger door and slides into the black leather seat. His dazzling, crooked grin greets her, but his eyes are hidden behind an expensive pair of sunglasses. His dark shades and casual attire—jeans and a gray shirt layered with an open, plaid button-up—give him the appearance of a young celebrity incognito.

"Are you sure I don't need to bring anything?" she asks him before buckling her seatbelt. She spots a large cooler in the backseat and a fleece blanket folded on top of it.

"I have everything we need," he assures her. "Alice and Jasper are bringing the rest. Just relax, Bella."

He leans across the middle console for a quick, hello kiss. His lips travel to her ear, his nose grazing her cheek along the way, and she hears a smile in his silken voice when he speaks again. "God, it's been a hell of a long day waiting for this."

Placing a hand on the side of his lightly-stubbled jaw, she draws him closer and locks their lips once more. "You have no idea," she says, convinced that there can be no way he's lamented their brief time apart as much as she has.

They pull away from Charlie's house and soon find the highway. What would be about a half-hour drive west to La Push takes significantly less time due to Edward's blatant disregard for speed limits. He finds it rather amusing when Bella pops him on the shoulder and tells him in her cute, Deep South twang that he "drives like a bat outta hell." He begins following the highway signs with better obedience for the rest of the way to put her at ease. As they approach the last few miles, he poses a question about something that's been bothering him since yesterday's phone call.

"Have you mentioned me to your father yet?" He stares hard at the white-lined pavement in front of him as he awaits her response.

"No. I told you we don't speak much, especially about personal matters," she explains. Aside from sharing the same roof and occasional small talk, she and Charlie inhabit two completely different worlds. He goes his way; she goes hers. And somewhere—whether in the living room or the kitchen—they cross paths briefly before returning to their own, separate space. "I don't see why I have to tell him anything."

"Do you think he'd be upset about us?" This time she notices the whitening of his knuckles as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. In addition to his sudden anxiety, she notices his usage of the word _us_, and it sends a tingling rush from her fingertips to her toes.

"Why would he be upset?" She adjusts the seatbelt so that she can turn to face him. "Edward, is there a reason he might have a problem with you and me?"

"No. I'm just—" He tugs at his haphazard hair and blows a puff of air through his lips. "Never mind. Don't worry about it." He forces a weak smile, and before the subject can be taken any further, they pull into the small beachfront parking lot.

As she exits the vehicle, she spots Jasper and Alice removing items from the back of a black Land Rover parked in the next space. Jasper waves at the new arrivals, giving a blue-eyed wink to Bella. With a blanket tucked under her arm and a large picnic basket in her hand, the tiny, feather-haired girl walks over and wraps her free arm around Bella's shoulders.

"Hi, Bella!" Her windchime voice jingles in Bella's ear.

"Hey, Alice." She reciprocates the heartfelt hug, greeting her with equal enthusiasm. "What's in the basket?"

"Only the best takeout in Port Angeles. Remember the café where we ate lunch a couple weeks ago?" Bella nods, easily recalling the day she'd met the couple at the restaurant in question. It was the same day she'd gone to see Alice's exhibit at the Waterfront Art Gallery. "I remembered that you liked their chicken salad, so I brought a sandwich for you."

"God, I love you, Alice." Bella smiles her thanks, feeling genuine gratitude for Alice's thoughtful nature.

"You better have something for _me_ in that basket since I brought all the drinks," Edward pipes up, shooting a playful smirk at his cousin.

"I brought your turkey sandwich, Edward, so hush," Alice retorts in mock annoyance.

Edward winks at Bella over the hood of the car just before ducking in to grab the big, red cooler from the backseat. She opens the opposite door to retrieve the blanket as Alice follows behind her, chattering all the while about her week at work. With their arms full, the group makes their way down the embankment to the crescent shore.

The cotton-cloud sky reduces the late afternoon sunlight to a muted glow. A few yellow beams manage to peek through now and then to sparkle the seemingly infinite expanse of steel gray water. The ground is laden with thousands of gem-colored, iridescent stones, each polished by time and tide. They tread carefully over the pebbled earth until their feet reach the softness of sand. Bella assists Alice in spreading one of the huge blankets on the sandy ground. They set the cooler on the fabric to keep it in place and begin unpacking the contents of the picnic basket. Meanwhile, Edward and Jasper leave the girls to round up some branches of dry driftwood for a small fire.

"So, what have you been up to all day?" Bella makes conversation as she and Alice arrange the cozy setup.

"Had a pretty busy morning actually," she replies, smoothing out the fabric. "I volunteer at the hospital in Port Angeles on Sundays."

"Really? What kind of work do you do there?"

"I teach watercolor to the sick children and elderly patients. You'd be surprised how much good a little art therapy can do for your health." Alice's bow-like mouth curves into a smile, revealing a string of pearly teeth. "What've you been doing?"

Bella sighs and shakes her head, ashamed of not having any acts of altruism to speak of. "Thinking about this."

The petite beauty sits cross-legged next to Bella and gulps a breath of the briny ocean air. "The weather is perfect for this today. Not too cold or windy. No rain."

"I was a little worried when I looked outside this morning. I kept waiting for a storm to break and ruin the whole day," Bella says, frowning and absently picking at one of her cuticles.

"I wasn't worried. I knew everything would work out, and it has."

Bella cocks her head to the side, admiring her friend's beaming face and sanguine nature. "You're such an optimist, Alice. Always smiling, always happy." She shakes her head in wonder. "How do you manage that?"

"I'm not _always happy_, Bella," Alice admits. She scoots closer to her until their shoulders touch. "I wear a smile because I choose to, not because my life is so perfect that I never have a reason to frown."

She pauses for a deep breath and locks her hazel eyes with Bella's. She knows little of this Southern girl's past, only having learned the minor details about her mother's recent, untimely death. But the intuitive Alice senses her new friend's unhappiness, and it breaks her heart.

"I know you're hurting, B. My family and I have experienced more than our fair share of pain and loss, and I can see that you have, too. But no matter how bad it seems, Bella, you can't give up. Don't think I haven't told Edward that same thing a hundred times before."

Bella clears a newly formed knot from her throat and gazes back at her. She is well aware that every word spoken by Alice is absolutely true and heartfelt. However, looking at this overcast world with glass-half-full perception is a hell of a lot easier said than done when everything you know and love has been shattered. Cynicism has always come effortlessly to Bella Swan; hope is a much more difficult concept to grasp.

"Thanks, Alice," she finally speaks. "I needed to hear that."

"Any time."

When the guys return with arms full of bone-white branches, they begin arranging the pieces of driftwood in a small pile at a safe distance from the blanket. Like a couple of mischievous kids, they engage in playful male banter as they work to coax a few flames from the wood with their box of matches and bottle of accelerant. Their confident maneuvers show Bella that they've done this many times before, and it doesn't take long for the young men's efforts to prove productive. Once everything is in proper order, Jasper and Edward join their partners on the blanket.

Edward reaches into the red cooler and sifts through the icy pool of cans and bottles until he finds what he's searching for. He pulls out a Michelob Light, removes the cap, and hands it to Bella. "This is what you like, right?" he asks, smirking proudly.

Taking the dripping bottle from his hand, she nods, simultaneously pleased and surprised. "Yes, thank you. Is this what you drink, too?"

"Hell no. I drink _real _beer," he scoffs while playfully scrunching up his nose. The next time he reaches into the cooler, he pulls out a green bottle of Heineken and pops off the cap. Jasper chuckles in concurrence and reaches into the ice for a Heineken as well.

"Don't listen to them, Bella. I'll have one with you." Alice nudges Jasper with her elbow, signaling him to pass a bottle of Michelob her way.

"Do y'all come out here a lot?" Bella asks before taking the first sip of her ice cold beer and savoring the crisp bitterness. She doesn't care if her bartender disapproves of her taste in alcoholic beverages; it's what she likes.

"We haven't been here in a while, actually," Edward says as he searches for his turkey and Swiss. The smell of wet earth, burning wood, and salty sea rouses everyone's appetite. They eagerly peel away the plastic wrappers from the sandwiches and begin chewing happily, praising Alice for her superb choice of sustenance.

"This was our hangout when we were in high school," Alice explains as she reaches into the basket for a stack of paper napkins and doles them out to each of the group. "We'd get our little group together on Saturday nights and drive out here when the weather was nice."

"Emmett always managed to get booze for everyone. He looked so much older than rest of us." A grin sweeps across Edward's face as he reminisces better days.

"It's too bad I didn't know you guys then," Jasper chimes in before taking a mouthful of his Reuben on rye. Alice and Edward nod their heads and mumble in agreement. "I love it out here. We didn't have a place like this to hang out where I grew up."

Jasper washes down another bite of his sandwich with a drink of beer and launches into stories of his childhood in Texas. Pretty soon, Bella starts sharing her own tales of Southern nights, and the two Forks natives are holding their sides laughing at her and Jasper's narratives. Between bites of sandwich and swigs of beer, the group trades memories of their junior and senior years and of what they learned from their random moments of youthful stupidity along the way.

When the meal is finished and the conversation starts to fizzle, the four of them relax on the blanketed ground and watch the sun as it begins its gradual descent in the evening sky. Alice shivers in response to the dropping temperature, and Jasper drapes one of the extra blankets around them. He cradles his tiny beloved in his arms and kisses the top of her ebony hair. As Bella observes their affectionate moment, she suddenly feels a pair of long arms encircling her from behind and pulling her closer. Edward sits behind her with his legs open and knees bent, and she slides back to meet him. She leans against him, melding her body with his and feeling his warmth contrast with the chill of the night air.

For Bella and Edward, there is nothing else in the world as they gaze at the October sun slowly melting into the flat line of the Pacific. The mossy, muddy rock formations, like tiny islands jutting up through the water, become silhouetted against the orange, pink, and purple canvas of the twilight sky. Soon, the amber-red glow of the firelight becomes the only illumination as darkness forms a black canopy around them. She lets her eyes flutter shut as she listens to the music around her—the rhythm of the waves rolling and crashing on the wet sand, the crackling sound of the burning wood, and the gentle cadence of Edward's breathing. She takes comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. He buries his nose in her chestnut hair, inhaling the honey-vanilla scent, and trails a line of kisses down her neck. The unexpected gesture causes her to shiver and her skin to prickle with chill bumps.

His chin comes to rest upon her shoulder. "Are you cold?" he whispers, mistaking her reaction for discomfort. She shakes her head no, but he wraps his arms tighter around her just in case.

In her periphery, Bella sees Alice mutter something in Jasper's ear. Seconds later, he rises to his feet and offers her his hand to help her stand. Alice stretches her arms above her head and turns toward Edward and Bella.

"I think we're going to head back," she says, picking up the blanket and folding it neatly.

"Are you ready to go yet?" Edward whispers into Bella's ear.

"No," she answers, hoping that he is as reluctant to leave as she is.

"Good," he mutters back. "Neither am I."

"We're going to stay a while longer," he tells Alice. He and Bella get up to assist her and Jasper in gathering their belongings.

"It was good to see you again, Bella" Alice says as she embraces her for a final time. "Call me anytime. Promise?"

"Promise." Bella nods, her wide, brown eyes reaffirming her statement. "Be careful."

They decline Edward and Bella's offers to help them carry things back to their vehicle. Bella hugs the couple and bids them a safe trip home. When the headlights of Jasper's Land Rover are gone, she and Edward are alone, accompanied only by the rolling water and dancing flames. He returns to the blanket and holds out his hand invitingly. Bella takes it and, to her surprise, is pulled on top of his chest.

"Hi," he says with laughter in his voice. His arms find her waist, his palm and fingers splayed on her lower back, as he rolls them over gently until they are lying on their sides facing each other. "Did you have fun tonight?" he asks as he brushes stray locks of hair from her face and tucks them behind her ear.

"Yeah, but I'm having more fun now." The lingering alcohol in her system makes her a bit more brazen, and she slants forward for a kiss. He smiles against her mouth, matching everything she gives with desirous lips. She pulls away momentarily and studies his gleaming green eyes.

"What did you mean earlier when you were talking about Charlie? The part where you said _us_…what did you mean by that?"

He raises up to prop his head on his hand, and she mirrors his position. With a puzzled expression, he stares at her questioningly. "I don't understand."

She licks her lips nervously and tries to clarify. "You asked if he would be upset about us. Is there an…_us_? This is real, right?"

"It feels real to me," he answers, nothing short of conviction in his voice. "Doesn't it to you?"

"Yeah," she grins. "It does." As soon as the words hit the air, he presses his lips to hers once more. His mouth moves against hers with new intensity—their lips treading the line between tender innocence and passionate disregard. His left hand travels along her side before coming to rest at the gap of exposed skin between the hem of her sweater and jeans. As the kiss deepens, she feels the fire-ice burn of his thumb tracing small circles on her bare flesh, and the sensation ignites a fierce surge of heat throughout her body. What she feels, he feels, and it's exciting and terrifying at the same time.

"Edward," she breathes his name. He pulls away to better read her expression. "There are things about you…" _Mysteries, uncertainties, _she thinks."Things that I need to know."

He closes his lids tightly and swallows hard, a worried crease forming between his brows before he opens his eyes again. "Bella, there is so much about my past that I want to tell you," he says, trying to focus on her shining, dark gaze. His nerves fail him, and he looks away, as if scanning the black distance over her shoulder for courage. "And I will tell you, I promise. Just don't ask me to do it tonight."

She strokes his cheek with her fingertips and nods understandingly. "Okay. I'll wait for you to tell me when you're ready."

"Thank you."

"There _is_ something else I want to know about your past, but it has nothing to do with your family." There is a nervous edge shaking her voice. "Can I ask you about it now?"

"Okay. Go ahead."

"Do you do this kind of thing a lot? I mean, I've seen the way women look at you at the bar…"

"Bella," he interjects. "I haven't been in a relationship with anyone in a _really _long time." His eyes reveal sincerity, and she wills her heart to trust his words.

"What about outside of relationships?" An impish smirk plays at the corners of her mouth as she draws on humor to conceal her apprehension. "I bet you have a different girl every night."

He snorts at her curious inquiries about his sexual activity. "Oh, definitely," he teases, returning her smirk. "I've had so many it's hard to keep count. And don't even ask me to try and remember all of their names!"

The crestfallen expression on her face urges him to quickly withdraw his previous statement. "Jesus, Bella, I was only kidding. I can count my past sexual relationships on one hand. I swear."

And his confession is true. His first had been young love—a high-school girlfriend his senior year—and the second, a foolish one-night-stand after clubbing with Emmett in LA. His last had been convenience—a temporary fix to temper the sting of loneliness during his year-long stay in London last year.

"Okay," she says, relief and amusement coloring her tone.

"What about you?" He poses the question with genuine interest, but judging by her earlier reaction, he figures that he already knows the answer.

"I dated this one guy for a while junior year. He was my best friend, actually, but that didn't work out." She recalls the handsome boy named Jacob Black and the childhood friendship where the lines had gotten blurred somewhere along the way. The experience had been bittersweet, but she could find no reason to regret it.

"We never—I never…" She stumbles, hesitant to admit her innocence, but feeling the necessity to be honest.

Edward reaches out to caress her blushing cheek, delighted to witness her walls crumbling a bit, and makes an attempt to put her mind at ease. "Bella, I'm not looking to rush into anything here. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I want to do things right with you. Will you give me the chance?"

With a needy hand placed on the soft hair at the back of his neck, she draws him nearer and meshes her lips with his, letting her wordless action—a kiss tinged with a hint of Alice's optimism—serve as her reply.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm thrilled to announce that school lets out for a full week for Thanksgiving break, and that means lots of writing time! Hope you all enjoyed the fluffy quality time in this chapter, but I warn you that the real drama is coming up very soon…like maybe next three chapters packed with tears and angst. But I'll make it all worth it, I promise. If you're not too busy, tap that little green button & tell me what ya think (but I'll still love you if you don't!). I'd buy all you lovely readers a beer if I could. Have a great week & have fun at the midnight showing of New Moon (I know I will!). See you Friday night at the theater! ;-)


	19. Chapter 19: When It Rains, It Pours

**A/N: **So, my buddy Alice & I loved New Moon—hope everyone else had fun watching it, too! Random funny story for you guys: I was talking to my best guy friend the other day and mentioned that I had a headache & felt lousy; he says, "Don't worry, darlin'. I'll be your Novocain." He could not understand why I thought that was soooo funny b/c he has no idea about my story and never will. Okay, anyways…enjoy this transition into some darkness; hang with me. The sooner we get past the dark, the sooner we get to some lemonade light (I'm thinking around Ch. 23 *wink*).  
**Quick clarification: Edward is 21. The current time of this story is mid October 2009. All dates mentioned in this section were chosen at random. You'll understand this by the time you reach the bottom.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: When It Rains, It Pours**

She awakens earlier than usual on Thursday morning and hears the tip-tap of water on her bedroom window. The rain hasn't stopped since her trip to the beach on Sunday. For the past three days the precipitation has cycled from mist to shower, from drizzle to downpour, and back again. Despite the dreary weather, the warm memory of his lips locked with hers as they lay on the blanketed sand is enough to distract her from the persistent chill of sodden earth and dripping sky. She never expected the Port Angeles bartender to be more than a diversion—a temporary break in the monotony of her life, a salve for the wounds inflicted by loss.

For nearly eight months, she has practiced the art of detachment. Shutting out the world—her mom, Charlie, her old friends, her future—is easier than facing it. Now, however, there are new people to remind her that there is life beyond grief. She is trying to believe in the same things that Alice believes in—hope, love, and endurance—but her efforts are not without difficulty. Edward Masen is chipping away at her fortress, and Bella Swan is simultaneously thrilled and terrified at the risky notion of exposing her heart to the possibility of more pain. There is much more to this bronze-haired boy than his intoxicating voice and ruffled beauty. There is his heart—one that seems to be as wounded by tragedy as her own—and in the glow of a crackling driftwood fire, he'd offered it to her.

_A chance_. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she muses over his words from Sunday evening. _Yes, Edward, I will give you a chance, _she thinks just before the curve of her lips gives way to a yawn. _But you deserve better than me._

Reluctant to leave her cozy bed so early_, _she buries her head in the pillow and sighs in frustration. There is a small mission to be accomplished before work today. It is the reason for her setting the alarm an hour earlier than necessary. She's been stalling for nearly a month, but she knows it is the right thing to do. For now she is unable to pay her respects to her mother, but she is able to do it for her friend.

She finally rolls and stretches her way out of bed and stumbles into to the shower. Once yesterday's grime is rinsed clean and new clothes are on, she heads downstairs to retrieve her modest token from the kitchen. The arrangement is very simple, a small floral bunch wrapped in cellophane that she picked up at the store on her way home last night. She'd placed them in the refrigerator to keep them fresh overnight, and she is pleased to see that they still look and smell lovely. After donning her boots and raincoat, she grabs her purse in one hand and the bouquet in the other and dashes through the rain to her truck.

Dawn peeks through the clouds, shining a faint light on the reflective water droplets scattered on the windshield as Bella drives to the local Lutheran church. When she pulls into the church parking lot, she is thankful that the rain has become little more than a sprinkle. She clutches the bouquet securely to her chest as she pushes through the squeaky, wrought iron gate of the cemetery. Her heart becomes a heavy brick sinking into the pit of her stomach once she enters the death garden. Tentative, she meanders through the maze of polished rocks and granite statues in search of the recent grave, the soggy ground squishing beneath her boots along the way. The cemetery is well tended with the headstones showing no sign of neglect, and she is grateful for the care the church has bestowed upon the sacred ground.

After moving carefully along the first several rows of graves, she finally finds the correct one. It is flat and inconspicuous, a double marker for husband and wife with a bronze vase in the middle. Bella crouches down to better read the two engraved names: _Peter J. Lucas _and _Charlotte E. Lucas_. She smiles at the thought of the sweet widowed lady finally being reunited with her beloved, hopefully in a place much warmer and drier than the Pacific Northwest.

"I miss you, Mrs. Lucas," she speaks to the name etched in gold lettering at her feet. "Forgive me for taking so long to get here." She presses a kiss to her fingertips and touches them to the cold, wet marble. "Thank you for giving me a smile every morning. You have no idea how much it meant to me."

Before she rises from her hunkered position, she replaces the withered flowers in the vase with the new blooms from her meager offering. It is the least she can do out of respect for the woman who, with kind eyes and compassionate words, had made her morning shifts at the diner a little more bearable for so many months. Feeling something akin to closure, she whispers a final goodbye to Mrs. Lucas and begins a slow trek back to the gate.

As she glances at numerous other grave markers in passing, each inscribed with names and dates she doesn't know, she is reminded of her own loss. She has never seen Renee's gravestone. Charlie had taken care of the business aspect of everything, including the funeral and burial arrangements, and Bella had left for Washington only days after the service. She swallows thickly and blinks several times to suppress a rising sob, determined not to lose the composure she's worked so hard to maintain all these months. Her feet begin moving faster to flee the macabre scene, but before she can escape, her stinging eyes catch sight of something in her periphery. She stops suddenly and squints across the yard at two very elaborate, upright headstones. They are unlike any other in the cemetery. An angel is carved on the side of each one, with its wings folded and head bent in reverence. When she reads the black letters printed atop each stone, her skin prickles with chill bumps and her breath hitches in her throat.

It is not the beauty of the ornate fixtures that causes her surprised reaction, but the names engraved in bold script on the polished surface of each one. She approaches with caution, mindful of the slick grass and mud, until she is standing directly in front of the dark granite monuments. Her eyes dart from the left marker to the right, registering the familiar names:

_Esme Cullen Masen; February 12, 1967 – June 29, 2006_

_Rosalie Lillian Masen; April 3, 1998 – June 29, 2006_

She can't shake the feeling of guilt when the realization hits her that Edward's family—the people he'd loved and lost three years ago—is lying beneath her dirty feet. Stepping aside too hastily, she loses her footing and tumbles forward onto the wet ground. She winces and curses aloud when her palms and knees bear the brunt of the fall, but her pain is quickly forgotten when her eyes make yet another discovery. Her face stops inches from another grave marker—one flat and made of marble in a design similar to that of the Lucas plot. It is no comparison to the other two beside it. Still balanced on her hands and knees, she stares down in astonishment at the words and numbers in front of her.

_Edward Anthony Masen, Sr.; November 5, 1962 – June 29, 2006_

* * *

Bella spends the entire first shift and most of the second pondering the events of her early morning. The knees of her jeans are splotched with mud and grass stains from her fall, but fortunately she has no scrapes or bruises from the impact. Her mind swirls with questions about her discoveries. Finding the graves of Edward's mother and sister was unexpected but not nearly as shocking as finding that of his father. She sifts through her memory for all the bits and pieces of information she's acquired about him thus far and attempts to assemble them into some decipherable form. It's no use. On their first dinner date, she'd inquired about his father. His response had been vague—saying only that his parents were divorced and that his dad wasn't "around"anymore—but at no point had he given any indication that his father was actually _dead_. Edward's entire family is gone, with the exception of his Uncle Carlisle and two cousins. The very idea of it causes her eyes to brim with moisture.

And there is something else about his father's grave that bothers her. The date of death is exactly the _same _as that of Esme and Rosalie's. All three had perished on the same day. What in the world could have happened? A car accident? A house fire? And why is there no painting of Edward Masen, Sr., hanging in the Waterfront Gallery alongside the beautiful memorial of Esme and Rosalie? Bella manages to formulate a myriad of questions but comes to no conclusion.

"Excuse me, waitress?" A burly lumberjack of a man grumbles at an obviously distracted Bella.

The man's annoyed tone jolts her immediately from her pensive trance. She blinks several times to refocus on the task at hand and apologizes to the disgruntled customer.

"I'm sorry, sir. What was that?"

"I asked for a slice of that lemon meringue pie," he says, folding his arms over his distended belly.

"No problem. Comin' right up." Bella flashes a friendly smile and turns on her heels toward the kitchen. She delivers an extra large slice of the pie to the man in hopes that he'll forgive her behavior and possibly leave a decent tip.

On the way back to the front counter, she accidently brushes shoulders with Jessica and hears something that sounds much like a snarl.

"Watch where you're going," Jess sneers between pops of her sickeningly sweet-scented gum.

Too engrossed in thought, Bella ignores her spiteful coworker and steps behind the register to ring up the remaining patrons of the lunch crowd. To her relief, business is fairly slow at the little restaurant today, and slow is good considering the racing speed of her mind since morning. She pulls her phone from her pocket to check the time and sees that she has a missed call. _Edward_.

She scans the near-empty dining area and heads for the back door. When she peeks out the window on her way through the kitchen, she sees that the rain has not let up enough for her to return the call outside. Instead she opts to use the ladies' bathroom for privacy. Anxious to hear his voice, she dials the number and paces the tiled floor while waiting for the ringing to stop.

"Hey, Bella," he answers, his tone revealing nothing short of enthusiasm to hear from her.

"Hey, sorry I missed you. I didn't feel my phone vibrate."

"It's okay. I know you're at work, but I wanted to let you know that I'm playing tonight. I'd love to see you if you can make it out here."

A grin spreads across her face at the sound of his invitation. He knows to call her whenever he has plans to perform at the bar. That night at his apartment, she'd confessed to him how his honeyed voice soothes her. In turn, he had admitted to the comforting effect that her presence has for him as well.

"Yeah, that sounds great." She continues pacing and runs her fingers through her long, chestnut tresses, wishing that she'd worn a ponytail instead. In her worried contemplation, she has been tugging at the strands all day.

"Is everything alright, Bella? You sound funny, like something's bothering you." His smooth voice suddenly develops a nervous edge. She wants to ask him—wants to know about everyone and everything—but she knows this is neither the time nor the place to engage in such a serious conversation.

"Everything's fine. I'm just…things are kind of crazy here today," she lies. "I'll see you later tonight."

"Okay. I hope work gets better for you."

"Thanks. Bye, Edward."

"Bye."

She flips the phone closed and shoves it back into her pocket before exiting the restroom. When she opens the door, she is met with prying, kohl-lined eyes. Jess is leaning against the doorframe, pretending to pick at her glittery nails. Bella is not fooled by her nonchalance; she knows that her snooping coworker was just eavesdropping on her conversation. For a split second, she has the urge to find a crowbar.

"So," Jess starts with a click of her tongue. "Are you and Edward, like, a _thing _now?"

Bella's lip curls into a sneer. "Maybe. Not that it's any of your damn business." She shoves past Jess, this time brushing against her shoulder on purpose. Just as she begins walking to the front of the diner, she hears an icy retort hurled at her back like a dagger, and the words bring her to an abrupt halt.

"Well maybe you should know that you're dating a complete _psycho_," she hisses with venom in her voice.

_Psycho? What the fuck is she talking about? _Bella wonders, feeling nauseated for the second time that day.

She spins around to face Jess once again and slowly approaches her. Her breathing becomes jagged; her fists clench at her sides. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You really don't know anything about him, do you?"

The smirk on Stanley's glossy mouth incites a new kind of fury in Bella, but she can't bring herself to walk away. Hesitantly, she asks the question again. "Fine, Jess. I'm listening. Tell me why you think Edward is a psycho."

"I don't think it, Bella. I _know _it. He went off the fucking deep end, and his uncle had to have him committed to a mental institution. He's really messed up. I'd be careful if I were you."

Bella swallows the knot forming in her throat and tries her best to maintain a cool air. She doesn't want to trust this new information, but there seems to be no lack of certainty in Jess's tone. "Why should I believe anything you have to say, Jessica?"

Jess stands with her hands on her hips and head cocked to the side, her piercing eyes and sharp tone cutting through Bella like razor blades.

"You can believe whatever the hell you want," she snaps. She takes a step closer to the Southern girl that she's envied since her arrival at Forks High School. "But I've been here a lot longer than you have, Bella. I know about everyone in this little town."

Before another sentence can be said between the girls, their confrontation is interrupted by the fuming voice of a very angry Cal. "What in hell is going on back here? Do you two think you can just stop working in the middle of the day? I've got a table full of customers that just came in!" His short, stocky form blocks the doorway, his brows wrinkled in an irritated scowl as he stands there glowering at them.

His twisted face softens a bit when he notices the color-drained complexion of Bella. He can't tell whether she is going to faint or vomit, or both. "What's the matter with you, Swan? Are you sick?"

With a sharp inhale, Bella nods. "Yes. I need to go home." And before Cal can reply, she dashes to the coat rack to trade her apron for her jacket, grabs her purse from the shelf, and bolts to her truck.

* * *

Charlie's police cruiser pulls into the driveway at a quarter after five, and he is surprised to find his daughter's Chevy home three hours early. He enters the house and hangs his jacket and gun belt on the hook by the door. He finds Bella sitting at the kitchen table, her chin resting on her palm as she absently stirs a steaming cup of tea. The box of chamomile tea she keeps in the cabinet is for days like this—days where the world seems more pear-shaped than usual. Unfortunately, the drink has done little to calm her upset stomach or soothe her frayed nerves.

"Did Cal close early today?"

She releases a sigh and shakes her head. "No. I felt sick and decided to come home."

"What's wrong?" Charlie studies her carefully with a mix of concern and confusion shadowing his scruffy face. His daughter has never taken a day off work that he can remember, and she never gets sick.

"My stomach felt funny, like I might throw up or something," she replies with a shrug. "I'm better now, I think." She isn't, really.

She told Edward she would wait until he was ready to tell her about his past. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't ask Jess or her father or anyone else for details of the Cullen-Masen history. But if Edward really is crazy—or worse, dangerous—then she needs to know now.

"Dad, what can you tell me about Edward Masen?"

Charlie swallows audibly and a somber expression marks his face. He strides forward and leans against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. No answer, only silence.

"He's Carlisle Cullen's nephew. He used to live here," she clarifies, mistaking his silence for lack of understanding.

"I know who he is. How do _you _know him?" His stern intonation suddenly makes her regret initiating this investigation at all, but the door is wide open now.

She hesitates, opening and closing her mouth several times as she considers how best to formulate her explanation. "Remember when I mentioned that I've been hanging out with my friend Alice in Port Angeles?" Charlie nods. "Well, that's how I met Edward. And now, he and I are…" She pauses to check his expression, but finds his face unchanged. "He and I are seeing each other…dating, I guess."

Charlie's lips form a hard line beneath his bristly, salt and pepper mustache. He clears his throat before responding and readjusts his stance. "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to get involved with him, Bells."

"Why?"

"The kid's got problems. Carlisle had him sent off to one of those special hospitals in Seattle. He can't help what happened, but…"

"What happened?" Bella interjects, her interest piqued even more now than before. "What happened to his family? He won't tell me."

With bated breath, she watches the muscle in Charlie's jaw tighten and waits for a response that doesn't come quickly enough. Instead of answering, he glides toward the fridge and reaches inside for a beer. He takes his time popping the tab and imbibing the first gulp.

"Dad?" Her impatience grows stronger by the second. Seeing the can of beer gripped in his hand causes her to become even more agitated. Not even the anesthetic quality of Edward's singing voice could calm the hurricane of emotions brewing within her at this moment.

"Look, I've worked hard to forget about that night. It was the worst tragedy this town has seen in God knows when, and I sure as hell don't want to rehash the details of it now. The boy can't be _normal _after going through something like that. I think it's best if you break it off with Edward."

The chair scrapes harshly across the linoleum as she pushes away from the table and jumps to her feet. Like a rubber band stretched so far until it snaps, she comes undone.

"What do you care who I'm with or what I do? It's not like you give a damn about me! Half the time you pretend like I'm not even here. Do you think I don't see the way you look at me like I'm some kind of a burden? It's almost as if it tortures you for me to be here."

Her steel words ricochet off the kitchen walls and resound loudly in his ears. Charlie gawks at his daughter, totally shocked by her raging outburst. He is speechless, motionless.

"Do you think I haven't noticed all the empty bottles of Jack and the six packs that disappear from the fridge on a daily basis? I'm sorry if my presence hurts you, Charlie. I won't be here forever, I promise. As soon as I get enough money saved, I'll be out of your way for good!"

She is on the brink of flooding tears now. Her cheeks are crimson and her throat is parched. She wants to run, to get the hell out of this house and never look back. Instead, she just stands there, waiting for some kind of reaction from her father—screams of anger or sobs of apology…anything. But when he finally speaks again, it's neither one of those things.

"I don't know what to do here, Bells. I'm not—"

"Just forget it," she says flatly, cutting him off. Distraught and tired of begging for answers, she heads for the front door, grabbing her raincoat and keys on the way there. "I'm going to Port Angeles. Don't expect me back tonight." And with those parting words, she storms out the door with hot tears streaming down her reddened face.

By the time her father makes another move, Bella is already in the truck with the engine cranked and roaring. As she speeds away, she does not see Charlie hurl the half-empty beer can across the kitchen and slam his fist onto the countertop. She does not hear the words that he should have said aloud before he let her leave.

"I do care, Bella," he says to no one.

* * *

**A/N: **Before I go I want to give a big, smiley shout-out to LouderThanSirens who gave me a little pep talk that helped me finish this chapter. Also, to my Alice here at home: I love you darlin' & glad to have you reading my stuff (shh, remember you're the only real-life friend I let read my nonsense). Have a great Thanksgiving people! :-D


	20. Chapter 20: The Truth

**Warning:** This chapter contains imagery that some readers may find emotionally disturbing or offensive. It involves the retelling of traumatic events. For those of you who decide to continue, grab a box of Kleenex & some chocolate for recovery.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: The Truth **

Speed limits don't matter. A gray curtain of sheeting rain and bad timing don't matter. Sobbing uncontrollably with snot and tears streaming freely down her face doesn't matter. The truth, above everything else, is the _only_ thing that matters right now.

She could have handled waiting to hear about his family's demise when he was ready to tell her. But as soon as Jessica Stanley opened her venomous mouth and Charlie spewed out a warning, it was the final straw. Now she is driving frantically on the highway, her composure shot to hell, as she endeavors to solve the mystery that surrounds Edward Masen. Trepidation twists her already nervous stomach. She fears that the truth may be detrimental to their budding relationship.

Is he psychotic? Is he dangerous? What if _he _is to blame for the death of his entire family? Could there be something so wrong with him that it shatters any chance of them having a future together? She bears no ill will or stigma toward anyone with mental illness, but still, she feels it is only fair to know what she's dealing with. Before she throws her morsel of Alice's optimism out the window, she wants to hear the God's honest truth from his mouth and no one else's. She is not giving up on them just yet.

In recent weeks, she has learned his schedule and knows that he usually does not arrive at the bar on weeknights until six. For the second time since she entered the highway, she calls his cell but gets no answer. He is expecting her tonight but not this early. Hoping to catch him before he leaves for work, she goes to his apartment first. She breathes a sigh of relief when she finally coasts into the lot behind his building and spots the silver Volvo at a distance.

As she nears the door to his building, she meets him jogging through the rain from his car. He is running late, having returned home for his forgotten cell phone. Surprise crinkles his forehead when he squints at her rapidly approaching form. He wants to tell her how stunning she looks in the cascading rain, but opts against it once he realizes her distressed state.

"Bella, what's wrong?" he asks, dread and alarm coloring his tone.

"I – I need to talk to you," she stammers. "I told my dad about us and he got upset, and then Jessica Stanley said something to me at work…" The words tumble out in a haphazard run-on sentence. There is no good way to initiate the sensitive subject. "You can tell me to leave if you want. I'll understand."

Even from underneath the hood of his jacket, she can see his brows knit together in a thick, dark line. A pained expression contorts his features when it suddenly dawns on him why she is there. His chest caves, his heart descending like a stone in water. He can only imagine which fragment of his past has been brought to her attention, and he fears losing her as a result.

"Come with me, please." He takes her by the hand, praying that this won't be the last time he laces his fingers with hers. Clutching her shaking hand tightly, he leads her into the building and upstairs to his loft. Once inside, they remove their soaked raincoats and stand staring at each other in silence for several, tense seconds. She feels terribly guilty for doing this to him, but nobody else is giving her straight answers. When the heavy silence remains unbroken, she decides that he is waiting for her to begin.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I know my timing is awful. I had a fight with Charlie, and I needed to see you. I couldn't stay in that house another second."

"It's fine, Bella. I'll call Carlisle—let him know something important has come up. Give me a minute, will you?" She nods. He retrieves his phone from the kitchen counter and begins dialing his uncle's number.

"Carlisle? Hey, I'm sorry it's last minute, but can you get Kate or Alice to cover the bar tonight?" After a few minutes of talk from the other end of the line, he assures Carlisle that everything is fine and gives his thanks before hanging up.

For a seemingly infinite amount of time, the only sounds occupying the room are his heavy footsteps pacing the hardwood and the unintelligible utterances being muttered under his breath. He begins the nervous habit of running his long fingers through the copper chaos of his hair, seeking comfort in the motion but finding none. While quietly observing his anxious dance, she witnesses the same black and blue emotion that she'd seen at the art gallery return to bruise his beautiful face once again.

"I knew it was just a matter of time before you found out something, but I kept stalling." He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck fretfully. "Did Jessica and Charlie tell you that I'm a total, fucking nut-job? That's what everyone thinks, isn't it?"

"They mentioned that you were sent away," she replies cautiously.

"I spent some time in a psychiatric hospital in Seattle…voluntarily. I'm sure some of the small-minded people of Forks might refer to such a place as a nuthouse or insane asylum." He spits the derogatory terms with disdain, and she can't blame him. "It wasn't like that, though." His evergreen eyes leave the floor to lock with hers, revealing nothing short of pure anguish and fear. "I may be a lot of things, Bella, but I am _not _crazy."

"I believe you," she says earnestly.

His feet finally lead him to the sofa where he plops down on the cool leather. She follows and takes a seat beside him. Cupping his head in his hands, he studies the floor for a long minute, mustering the courage to delve into the jumbled pile of suppressed memories.

"Jesus, Bella, I don't know where to start. It's been years since I talked about any of this."

The sudden tension of his muscles becomes apparent through the thin fabric of his navy blue shirt. Placing her palm soothingly on his back and rubbing large circles, she attempts to console him. Then, she leans over and plants a soft kiss on his shoulder. She wants to show him that she is listening and open to whatever darkness he has to reveal.

"Why don't you start by telling me about what happened to your family," she suggests.

A ragged breath gusts through his lips before he begins. "We were the perfect family," he says, chuckling sardonically. "My father was a successful doctor at Forks Community Hospital. My mother was a housewife and heir to the Cullen fortune. We lived in a fancy house, drove expensive cars, went on vacations—the whole nine. Fucking _perfect_."

Bella stares at him, dumbfounded, with her brows furrowed and mouth agape, attempting to understand where this unexpected introduction is leading. With a shake of his head, he smirks.

"_Nothing _in this entire world is perfect, Bella. People in Forks always looked at my family like we had everything. We didn't. My dad was very controlling." Edward releases the last word through clenched teeth, clearly seething with anger at the recollection of his father's behavior.

"It wasn't like what you see in the movies, either. He didn't go around breaking shit or hitting us. He didn't give my mother black eyes or bruises to cover up. No," he says shaking his head minutely. "His form of abuse was more…subtle. He ruled by fear. Everything had to be his way. He was strict with my sister and me, and for the most part, we learned to stay the hell out of his way. He was very possessive of my mother. She loved him—God only knows why—and she thought she was doing what was right by keeping the family together. Mom was one of those people who thought she could fix everything. If something went wrong, she just tried harder to make it right. She did everything she could to make him happy, always bending over backwards to keep the peace. And she did it for years.

"My father made threats. He had her convinced that he'd do something to me or my sister—like take us away from her where she'd never be able to find us…or worse. No one except us knew what was going on, not even Carlisle. My dad was different in public than he was at home. People loved him—his patients, the church, the big shots in town…everyone. To everyone else, he and my mom were the perfect couple. We were all so good at pretending, you know?"

He scowls while furiously gnawing the inside of his cheek, disgusted by the years of sweeping personal dust under the rug—years of playing make-believe that all was right with the world.

"What made them finally get a divorce?" Bella questions curiously.

"Mom finally couldn't take it anymore. Things were getting worse, and she was afraid—not for her own safety, but for mine and Rosalie's. My dad and I got into a huge fight in the yard one night. I only got a few licks in before he beat the hell out of me. My trip to the emergency room was when Carlisle and Chief Swan got involved. Once they realized what had been happening, Carlisle went to the Board to get my father dismissed from the hospital, and Chief Swan helped my mom obtain a restraining order. My father ended up resigning before any action could be taken against him—said he'd gotten a position at a bigger hospital in the city. We thought we were finally free. The divorce was finalized in March of that year, and my father left Forks. It was supposed to be a new beginning."

"Where did he go?" Bella teeters on the edge of the sofa, completely engrossed in Edward's story.

"He moved to Tacoma for a couple of months, but he still harassed us with phone calls at all hours of the night and threatening letters and emails. We had the locks and our number changed. My mom was so terrified that she actually bought a gun and kept it in her nightstand. Your dad checked in on us on a regular basis. He was always willing to help—even gave me his home number in case we needed him. When it came time for my graduation in June, my dad was so pissed that he wasn't allowed to attend. We were worried he might show up anyway and make a big scene, but Chief Swan made certain there was extra security at the school that day. I'm grateful for everything he did for us, Bella."

His remarks of gratitude summon the memory of their late-night chat at _Cullen's _bar several weeks ago. After one of his performances, they had sat across from each other and traded fragmented details over the polished wood table. When she'd spoken Charlie's name, she'd witnessed Edward's face become stricken with sudden realization. At the time she could not understand the meaning behind his words when he told her, "Chief Swan is a good guy." Maybe _Chief_ Swan is a good guy, a servant of the public and an upstanding officer of the law. But _Charlie _Swan is an aloof, alcoholic father who prefers to bathe in beer and misery instead of reaching out to hold the tragedy-scarred hand of his only daughter. It's just another fucked-up piece of irony to add to her cluttered mental file for further analysis.

She shakes the distracting thought from her head just as Edward gathers the energy needed to continue with the murkier half of his story.

"A few weeks went by after my graduation ceremony, and we didn't hear anything from him. No middle-of-the-night phone calls, letters, or anything. I actually thought it was all over."

"So what happened?"

"He came back."

She watches his trembling fingers tangle through his windstorm hair—not in his usual, shy-nervous way, but in complete despair. He rakes both hands through the disarray, as if tugging desperately at the strands can somehow force this crooked world to become straight again. Before she is able to reach out and calm his wrists, he stands up from the sofa and walks to the opposite side of the room. As his story grows darker, his anxiety grows stronger. There is a macabre twist in the tale of his life, and for the first time in years, he is about to retell—_relive_—every horrifying detail of it. For a seemingly infinite period of time, he paces the floor, walking from the living area to what would be a bedroom had there been any interior walls. After several deep breaths and long strides, he settles on the right side of the bed. Cautiously, she approaches his sitting form—his body bent with elbows resting on knees and forehead buried in hands. From across the left side of the bed she crawls until she feels the warmth emanating from his curved back. A sigh escapes his lips as she molds her body against his, looping her slender arms around his waist and placing her chin on his shoulder.

In his ear, she whispers, "I'm not going anywhere, Edward. You can fall apart in front of me, and I won't think you weak." She gives him a gentle squeeze to let him know that she is real, and then she releases him from her clasped arms to join him at his side. As they sit side-by-side on the edge of his bed, she takes his left hand in her right. "I am here, and I am listening," she tells him.

Gripping her small hand firmly, he swallows hard and uses her whispered assurances to give him the strength he needs to continue.

"It was the end of June, and it was late," he starts in a monotone voice stripped of its usual, honeyed splendor. "I'd been out with some friends, and it was well after midnight when I pulled into the drive. His car was parked in the driveway, but it shouldn't have been. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near us. I'm not sure what I was expecting when I walked in. The entire house was quiet like everyone was asleep. There was no one downstairs, so I followed the sound of movement coming from my mother's room on the second floor. When I opened the bedroom door…"

He pauses again for a moment, the tightening of his grasp telling her that she may not want to hear what happens next. She ignores the uncomfortable pressure of his grip and trains her eyes on his profile, fearfully waiting to be led behind that door with him…to see what horrors he has seen.

"It was completely dark except for the light coming from underneath the bathroom door. I could see Mom and Rosalie in the bed, and at first I thought they were asleep. But then I saw the red staining the sheets and pillows around them. I don't think they even knew what happened…never heard him coming. Rose was curled up beside Mom the way she always did whenever she was scared or had a nightmare. I don't think he expected her to be there."

"Jesus," she breathes, unable to decide whether her utterance is one of shock and horror or one of prayer. Maybe both.

Suddenly, his body quakes violently with overpowering emotion as if an electric current is passing through his veins. Then, the most heartbreaking sound Bella has ever heard fills the space as choking sobs rattle from his mouth. Piece by jagged piece, he crumbles and falls backward onto the bed, folding into himself like a dying spider. The grown man beside her disappears, and a broken little boy takes his place. She hasn't a clue what to do or how to make it better. There has been only one other time in her life when she has felt this helpless. She has nothing of comfort to offer him. Her voice lacks the anesthetic quality of his, so she does the only thing she knows to do. She takes him in her arms, lets him curl into her and cling as tightly as he needs. His tears soak her shirt as she cradles him, caressing his hair and whispering promises that she cannot bring herself to believe.

"It's okay now," she assures him. "Everything is gonna be fine, Edward. I promise, I promise…." and so on.

When he regains composure, having wiped the moisture from his face with the tissues Bella retrieved for him, they lie facing each other with their heads on the pillows. He begins speaking again, his voice hoarse from crying.

"There was noise coming from the bathroom, and I knew it was him. I grabbed the pistol from the drawer of my mom's nightstand and walked toward the bathroom. The door was cracked enough for me to see him in there. The bastard was crying over the sink. Before I could push my way in, he heard me and threw the door open. We just stood there staring each other. I had the gun pointed right at him, and I swear to God he fucking dared me to do it."

"Did you?" she asks, holding her breath.

"I couldn't at first," he answers flatly. "But then he reached for his gun on the counter, and I had no other choice." The color drains from his already ashen skin. His eyes remain fixed on her face, stoic and unblinking as if they are staring into an infinite abyss. "I shot him. I shot the son-of-a-bitch dead."

Bella flinches. After what she has just learned of Edward's father, she harbors no sympathy of any kind for the cold-blooded stranger. As far as she is concerned, he deserved far worse than a bullet for his cruel actions, but to hear that it was Edward—_her _Edward—that had been forced to pull the trigger is an overwhelmingly bitter dose of information to swallow at once.

"You don't regret it, do you?"

"I only regret not doing it sooner," he replies emphatically. "Does that frighten you—to know that I've killed a person without remorse?"

"Absolutely not. I'm just sorry that you had to do it," she says, steeling her voice with conviction.

"Your dad was the first one there after I called 911. He took care of everything."

"Charlie saw everything that night?"

He nods mechanically against the pillow. "Yes."

As frustrated as she is with her father, she finally understands the reason for his silence on the matter. Who would want to remember such a gruesome scene? For the first time in perhaps ever, Bella feels something akin to sympathy for Charlie. However, she still cannot comprehend his aversion to her relationship with Edward. Of course, a person can't be _normal_—if such a condition even exists—after experiencing something so traumatic; but then again, neither is she. If there ever was a so-called normal bone in her body, it got smashed to bits the day she watched her mother die.

When his emerald eyes return to her, she pushes forward. "When did you go to the hospital in Seattle?"

"In August. I was supposed to be starting freshman year at UW that month. Instead I did a three-month stint in a psychiatric ward at West Seattle."

"Well, I'd probably still be there after going through what you went through," she empathizes. "Jess said you went off the deep end. Mind if I ask what happened?"

He laughs softly. "That's not a bad way to put it, actually. I lost it after that night. I couldn't eat or sleep. I stopped talking to people for a while. Then, one day I got drunk, drove to La Push and..." He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he recalls the failed suicide attempt and all that followed. "Let's just say I went cliff-diving. Luckily, some of the local kids saw me jump and pulled me out of the water before I drowned."

"You wouldn't ever try something like that again, would you?"

"No, Bella. I swear. I understand if you feel uncomfortable or scared. It's a lot to take in. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if you ran away screaming right now." He chuckles nervously, trying to conceal the bitterness of apprehension with the sweetness of laughter. "I'm not crazy, Bella. At least, I don't think I am."

"Hey," she interjects, cupping his bristled cheeks in her hands. "I'm not going anywhere. And as for you being crazy, I am fairly certain that I'm a hell of a lot crazier than you are."

For the first time in much too long, her favorite crooked grin—a half-moon of white teeth bordered by plump, cherry lips—makes an appearance, speeding her pulse and setting her blood ablaze. It vanishes quickly, but only to capture her mouth in a kiss laced with sincere affection and utter desperation. After hours of swimming through a fierce deluge of truth and emotion, their minds and bodies are spent. Together they lie on his bed, curled and clinging atop the covers, choosing the warmth of each other over that of the sheets and blanket. He rests his tear-stained cheek upon her soft breast and listens to the melody of her humming heart.

For tonight, he is not the one singing. It is she who is providing him comfort, giving him the numbness that he needs to fall into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

* * *

**A/N: **Remember, I am not Edward. I cannot read your mind, so please tell me what you think—good or bad, I'd love to hear from you. It is not for the sake of numbers; I only want to know how you are affected by the story or if there is something I can do to improve my writing. Every story alert/fav is greatly appreciated. You have no idea how happy I am to have you giving my story the time of day. Okay, I'm done now.

No, wait! One more thing: I am on Twitter—link is on my profile & you may follow me if you like. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving. Less sadness in the next chapter! (P.S.-Hi, Alice! I see you reading, darlin.) :-D


	21. Chapter 21: Show & Tell

**A/N: THANK YOU** for showing me so much love for the last chapter. It was a difficult one to write, but I was so pleased with your response to it. Clearly, many of you are quite perturbed with Charlie, and I've been getting lots of questions/comments about him. My response: Much of Charlie's character has yet to be revealed; I'm still working with him, so have faith. And to answer your other questions: No, Edward doesn't have any other troubling secrets, but Bella's still got her own truckload of angsty shiznit to sort through. Bear with me, darlins. :-)

This would have been posted much sooner had it not been for final exams & personal heartfail; I apologize. I'm dedicating this chapter to my RL buddy Alice. She has been there for me this past week while I was dealing with some angst of my own. Thank you, my dear!

On a happier note: I hope you enjoy what I'm dubbing _Freshly-Showered Towelward. _As always, much love. 3

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Show & Tell**

At a quarter after six a.m., she stirs without the sound of an alarm to rouse her. This undoubtedly is the result of months of waking early for work. As she stretches, she discovers the right side of the unfamiliar bed to be vacant, but still warm and slightly sunken with the imprint from another body. She jolts forward, shooting straight off the mattress and blinks furiously until she realizes where she is and what happened the night before.

Last night, Bella Swan learned three very important lessons: One, the heart-wrenching stories one hears about on the news, but swiftly changes the channel to avoid, really do happen. Two, a multi-million-dollar inheritance does not, and cannot, buy true happiness. And three, there is another side to her sullen father that she has yet to see personally.

The sound of rushing water from the shower tells her of his presence before she has time to be concerned. He is still there and must be functioning normally, even after having relived his traumatic past. Realizing that she is still fully clothed in jeans and a sweater from the previous day, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her cell. She decides to seize the few private moments to make a couple of necessary phone calls to her boss and Charlie. In her most pathetic voice, she relays to Cal that she is still ill, possibly stricken with a severe case of the stomach flu, which is convincing considering her nauseated departure from work yesterday. He grumbles about calling in another part-time girl to assist Jess, and to her surprise, wishes her better health soon.

When she musters the courage to dial Charlie, she is relieved when the call goes straight to voicemail. At the tone, she leaves the following message:

"Hey, Dad. I stayed with a friend in Port Angeles last night, and I called in sick to Cal. I'll be home later today. L—" she stammers over the seldom-said word. "Bye."

"Hey, you're up." A husky, morning voice says from the open bathroom door.

Caught off guard, Bella croaks a coarse response. "Uh, yeah."

Her cheeks blaze scarlet as she tries failingly to avoid gawking at Edward's unrefined form. As he saunters toward the bed, he is mindful to maintain a grip on the white towel wrapped around his waist. The closer he moves, the better she can make out the details of his bare chest—the way the fine wisps of hair cover his torso and trail down his stomach before disappearing below the obscuring fabric. He is not scrawny or slight, but he is no perfectly chiseled Adonis, either. The definition of his musculature is subtle but still apparent, with no sculpted six-pack abs or bulging biceps to speak of. For this she is grateful, because her own stomach and arms are soft…not that she'll ever be daring enough to reveal her naked flesh to anyone, especially to him.

He smiles shyly at her, tousling his damp locks with his free hand. "Sorry I woke you. I figured I'd take a quick shower while you slept."

"That's fine. I, um, I'm usually awake by this time every day," she explains, tongue tied.

He flashes another sheepish grin at her, noticing her uneasy behavior, and gestures toward the dresser. "I'm just gonna grab a shirt and pair of sweats. Don't worry. I'll change in the bathroom."

She holds up her hand in protest. "No, no. I'll turn around. I feel bad that I crashed here without even asking, but—"

"Bella, you are welcome to stay here anytime. And I don't mean that in a— I mean, I'm not implying…"

"I know. Thank you," she interjects, saving both of them from further awkwardness. "I'm turning around now." She swivels from her seated position on the bed to face the opposite direction and begins gnawing her bottom lip nervously.

As he dresses, he glances at her from the corner of his eye and smirks at her disheveled tresses and flustered reaction. He shakes his head incredulously at the girl-woman who never ceases to amaze him. Inwardly, he wonders how she can go from waltzing into a bar, alone and underage, to blushing feverishly at the sight of him in a towel. Such innocence masked by a feisty, brazen—and, in his opinion, absolutely gorgeous—exterior. It is then and there that he vows to move slowly with her, to let her set the pace of this budding romance. He senses the fragility of them both at this point—of Bella most of all. In her dark eyes, he sees that the pain of loss is still very new and understands that his healing process began years before hers.

He continues to dress, sliding hurriedly into his boxer briefs followed by a pair of black sweats.

"You snore," he blurts, attempting to break the ice as he pulls on a gray t-shirt and hoodie.

"I damn well do _not_!" she snaps, drawing out the final word with more syllables than necessary. She catches herself before she spins around.

He senses her impatience and assures her that he is decent for viewing. "You do, actually." He teases her with the crooked smile that he knows she likes best. "It's not loud, though—more like a cat's purr. It's cute."

She springs from the bed, crossing her arms in front of her chest and glaring at him in mock indignation. "Well, you kick like a mule, but I wasn't going to be rude and point it out."

He strides toward her, toweling his wet hair as he steps closer, and surprises her by planting a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Have I ever told you how sexy that little drawl of yours is?" He quirks his thick brow and curls his mouth into a devilish smirk.

_My dear sweet Lord, _she thinks with her tongue trapped between her teeth.

She rolls her eyes, feigning indifference, and settles on the edge of the bed. "I called in sick to the diner, so I'm free for the day," she says, changing the subject.

"Guess that means you'll have to stay here all day to keep from blowing your cover," he suggests. "Feel free to take a shower and borrow one of my shirts if you want."

In sudden panic, she swipes her fingers under her eyes and grimaces at the crumbled mess that is yesterday's mascara. Her skin is greasy, as is her messy hair, and she becomes very aware of the stale taste in her mouth.

"I'll run out and grab us some breakfast while you get ready."

"Would you mind stopping by a convenience store and picking up a toothbrush for me while you're out?" she asks somewhat embarrassedly.

"Sure. No problem."

They spend the next few minutes determining the best choice of fast-food breakfast as he ties his sneakers. Once a decision is made, he retrieves his keys from the counter and heads out the door, promising to return in about twenty minutes. She is relieved to have some privacy to freshen her appearance and to ponder the details of last night's revelations in silence.

As she enters the bathroom, she recalls the first time she'd set foot on the tiled floor just after her near-death experience in the alley. She shudders at the memory of scratched, bruised flesh and ripped clothing, but smiles when she remembers the kindness bestowed upon her by the handsome bartender. One glimpse in the mirror makes her cringe at her unsightly appearance, so she hops quickly into the glass-enclosed shower. Steaming water and Edward's scent elicit a tingling sensation over her fair skin as she washes away sleep and grime. She hastily scrubs the old makeup from her face and cleanses her hair with his shampoo. When she is finished, she wraps one of the fluffy white towels around her and studies her reflection, this time more satisfied with the image staring back at her.

Peeking through the cracked door, she sees that he has not yet returned and deems it safe to cross the open space to his dresser. She searches the drawers for a sweatshirt, sorting through folded shirts and balled-up socks until she finds a red one with _Seattle _printed across the front. Holding the soft cotton to her nose, she inhales the scent of fabric softener tinged with his cologne—much the same as the shirt she sleeps in at home, sans the faint smell of tobacco. Sometimes the scent of his nervous habit is present and sometimes not; either way, it is all him and she likes it.

On her way back to the bathroom to retrieve her jeans and underwear, she hears the clicking of his keys in the door. He is back too soon, having only left less than ten minutes ago. Suddenly frantic, she curses the long expanse of the open apartment and her lack of planning to retrieve a shirt before showering. Clutching the towel tightly to her bodice, she makes a desperate sprint for the bathroom.

But it is too late. The door swings open. And there he stands…holding his keys and a small plastic bag with a newly purchased toothbrush and pack of Marlboro Lights.

Startled, he inhales sharply and stares with his green eyes wide and mouth agape. It is not the shock of seeing a woman donning nothing more than a towel. He's seen the female form with far less coverage than this before. Instead, it is the sight of the dark pink, jagged lines that mar her left shoulder and arm—much the same as the small mark that snakes along her hairline. He'd noticed from day one how she purposely places a lock of her hair so that it hangs on the right side of her forehead just so—a curtain of protection. In his eyes, it never stole anything from her natural beauty. But more troubling than the appearance of the scars themselves, is the look of sheer mortification that marks her face just before she dashes into the bathroom.

"Bella, wait!" He follows after her but is met by a slammed door.

From the other side he can hear her anxious mutterings. "Oh my God, oh my God," she repeats. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"I picked up your toothbrush and decided it'd be better if we went out to breakfast—some place nice," he explains. "Why the hell are you so upset?"

"Why? _Why?!_," she exclaims. She senses the tears but stifles them promptly. "Don't pretend like you didn't fucking _see _me!"

"Jesus, Bella, are you serious? It's not a big deal." He leans his head against the doorframe and sighs after a long pause and no answer from the other side. Inwardly, he longs to indulge in a cigarette—perhaps two or three—to quell the newly arisen tension. For the time being, he ignores his nicotine craving and focuses on the task at hand. Fearing nothing else will work, he resorts to begging.

"Will you please come out? Please?"

She takes deep breaths, effectively calming her frayed nerves. "Can I have the toothbrush, please?"

He fishes the long plastic box from the bag and prepares to hand it to her. "Only if you promise to come out when you're done," he bargains. "Will you?"

"I don't know," she answers petulantly. "Just give me the damn toothbrush, and I'll think about it."

When he agrees, she cracks the door just enough to seize the object from his hand and thanks him before quickly shutting it again. She dresses in the sweatshirt and jeans and finishes brushing her teeth, all the while debating the best course of action. Escape plans flood her brain because, after all, running is what she does best in stressful situations such as these. After several long minutes of deliberation, she finally decides to reemerge from the bathroom and hopes for the best. Upon opening the door, she spots him sitting on the floor with his arms draped over bent knees.

Rising to his feet, he grasps her hand before she can walk away and leads her to the sofa. "Sit down and get comfortable 'cause we're not leaving till we talk about this," he orders in a tone that is soft but serious.

She plops down on the black leather seat and brings her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms securely around her shins. As he stands in front of her, he begins boldly stripping out of his hoodie and undershirt.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks in total astonishment. For a moment, she wonders if she should've fled the building when she had the chance seeing as how he's suddenly lost his senses.

He points to a faded, straight line on his lower abdomen where a scalpel had left its mark ten years before. "See that? That is a scar from the appendectomy I had when I was in sixth grade."

She snorts, shaking her head in disbelief at the scene unfolding. He rolls his eyes at her and continues with his strange game of show and tell. "And this," he says, gesturing to a small, pale burn scar on his forearm. "This is where Alice burned me with a sparkler on the Fourth of July when we were kids."

Now, Bella and Edward are laughing, both of them clearly amused at his odd little game. After redressing in his top clothing, he hikes up his right pants leg and points out another mark. This one is long and jagged—similar to the scars that blemish her shoulder and arm.

"And finally, this little beauty is left over from a very ungraceful slide into third base when Emmett and I played high school ball." With a roll of her eyes, she chuckles at his ridiculous efforts to alleviate her insecurity. He joins her on the sofa and smirks proudly at the success of his little show.

She breaks her shell of folded legs and arms to playfully poke him in the ribs. "I still think mine are prettier," she quips, and he nods in agreement.

Before she can move away, he draws her nearer and binds her closely to his side. Turning so that he can have better access to her face, he pushes aside the damp locks falling in front of her forehead and gently traces the exposed pink line with his fingertip. She shies away at first, ducking her head from his touch, but he tilts her reluctant chin upward anyway.

"You are beautiful, Isabella Swan," he tells her. "Don't ever think otherwise."

The velvet in his lowered voice provides a sufficient dosage of the numbing drug she needs in that moment. Before she can brush off the compliment, he captures her mouth in a tender kiss, affirming the sincerity of his words with every passionate motion of his lips. He pulls away momentarily to catch his breath and is surprised when she leans in closer and skims the angle of his jaw with her nose. He smiles, inhaling her freshly-cleansed fragrance—a pleasant mixture of his shampoo and something distinctly Bella.

"Thank you." He mouths his gratitude at her temple, his warm breath prickling her skin.

"For what?" she asks, staring up at him in confusion.

"For last night—for letting me tell you my worst and not running out the door screaming."

"There's no reason to thank me for that."

"I know I did all the talking last night," he says while rubbing lazy circles on her back, "but I can listen, too."

Sighing heavily into his chest, she nods her understanding. Show and tell. He has revealed all of his scars, and now it is her turn to do the same. At the very least she can share with him the abridged version of how her flesh became patterned with lines and her mind bruised with bad memories.

At first her words are nearly inaudible, muffled by the thick cotton of his hooded shirt, but she manages to get them out. "I was in the car with my mom," she starts tentatively. "She was taking me to Memphis to buy a dress for prom." Her voice quivers; her eyes become lachrymose with emotion. "But we never made it there."

He winces when he hears his suspicions confirmed. From the moment she'd spoken of her mother's death—by the flash of pain in her eyes and the mark on her forehead—he had assumed there was more to learn.

As her story unfurls, the dam breaks. Hot streams flow freely down her cheeks, swelling her sore eyes and soaking his shirt. The girl trembling and crying against his chest is a survivor…just like him.

The tale darkens. She tells him of the shattered glass that sliced her skin and about the blunt impact that broke her arm. Tearfully, she recounts stitches and gauze, plaster and pills—the ambulance ride to the hospital and the surgery to repair crushed bone. When the sobs make her words unintelligible, he wraps his arms tighter around her, holding her together just as she had held him the previous night.

And so the morning progresses…with shades of Bella's black and blue finally coming to light.

* * *

They stop for breakfast at one of the local restaurants where they enjoy far better fare than greasy fast-food, sausage-egg sandwiches. As their full plates gradually become empty, they make playful remarks on each other's quirky eating habits. She comments on how he uses an absurd amount of maple syrup on his French toast. He scrunches up his nose at her description of the instant cheese grits she used to enjoy back home. Of course, they don't serve such a thing here, so she enjoys scrambled eggs and bacon instead. Despite discovering their contrasting tastes in morning meals, they learn that both of them prefer their coffee with two creams and two sugars. For this commonality, they are appreciative.

She continues to laugh at the "mmm" sounds he makes as he chews a mouthful of syrup- and butter-smothered toast, and he shakes his head incredulously at her need to arrange the different foods on her plate so that none of the items is touching the other.

The mood is bright, much like the unusually cloudless, Port Angeles morning. So much had been revealed in the last twelve hours. Earlier, she had finally offered him a glimpse into her past—not everything, but enough for now. She had shown him a little. He had given her a lot. And when she requests that more of the gaps be filled in over breakfast, he is willing to comply.

"So, what have you been doing for the last three years if you haven't been in school? I mean, have you been working at _Cullen's_ ever since you got out of…" She stops, hesitant to initiate talk of his stint in the hospital.

"No, I only started bartending in June. This is the first time—in a _long _time—that my life has had some semblance of normalcy," he answers casually, seemingly unfazed by the topic. "Things changed for all of us. Alice and Emmett moved away to different schools, and I was so messed up I couldn't even consider college."

She nods understandingly. "Is that when you and Carlisle moved here?"

"Yeah. There was no reason for either of us to stay in Forks. Too much talk, too many bad memories. I couldn't even walk down the street without people staring at me. And there was no way I could ever bring myself to live in that house again." A grim expression takes hostage of his face, but only for a moment. After a few silent seconds, he continues.

"After I got out of the hospital, Carlisle sold both houses—his and my mom's—and left his practice. That's when we moved to Port Angeles. Carlisle had always wanted to try running his own business, and it seemed like a good time to start something new. He needed a change, and obviously, managing your own restaurant and bar is completely different from having a medical practice," he explains, chuckling softly. Before continuing, he pauses to finish off the rest of his lukewarm coffee, and she does the same.

"I lived with him for the length of time it took to renovate the building where the bar is now. We worked on it together—sort of a mutual project to take our minds off all that had happened."

Lost in reflection, he begins absently toying with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. As he slowly spins the two glass containers, he recounts the six-month period of renovations—of knocking down old walls and constructing new ones in their place. Together, they had taken the neglected downtown building and had transformed it into something beautiful and more refined. It had become a place where locals and out-of-towners alike could come together for food and drink, music and laughter—a place where one could forget the troubles of the day, if only for a little while.

"I don't blame y'all one bit for leaving Forks," she empathizes. The circular coffee cup in her hand reminds her of the earth's round surface covered in vast lands and oceans that she's never seen before. The idea of leaving—of traveling to anywhere other than Washington or Mississippi—holds so much appeal. "I don't know why you're still here, honestly. Why not pack up everything and travel the world? That's what I would do."

"I did, actually. I lived with Emmett in LA for a while. Then, I spent some time in Chicago and New York, but London was my favorite. I was pretty aimless, just meandering from one city to another, playing in pubs and small venues and generally acting like a lost tourist." He stares at the now empty coffee mug in front of him, smiling at the memory of his two-year journey that, ironically, had taught him to appreciate coming home. His wealth had afforded him the luxury of travel, but in the end, he'd come to realize that neither money nor location make the slightest difference when you lose the ones you love.

Bella's focus remains fixed on his thoughtful expression as she traces a mental map of the lines and angles of his handsome visage. She wishes she could see the places he has seen. The waitress removes their finished dishware, and Bella rests her hands on the empty table.

"What made you decide to come back?" she asks curiously as she runs her palm lightly over the tablecloth. Her fingers make invisible patterns on the fabric while she listens for his response.

"I got tired of running. When Carlisle told me Alice had moved back after graduation, I decided it was time for me to come home, too. I realized I had been shutting out the only family I had left, and I couldn't do it anymore."

Reaching across the table, he stops her absentminded motion of smoothing over the cloth and takes both of her hands in his. He gently rubs his thumbs over her knuckles, willing her to listen as his lips begin speaking the truth that her ears need—but do not want—to hear.

"Bella," he says, his green-eyed gaze piercing and earnest. "No matter where you go—whether it's north or south, a place of constant rain or steady sun—your problems will follow you. It's all the same shit, just different scenery." He narrows his eyes and gives her hands a firm squeeze to emphasize his point. "Trust me."

She nods, hearing his heartfelt words but reluctant to accept the meaning behind them.


	22. Chapter 22: Walls Down

**A/N: **I wish there was some way to adequately express my sincere appreciation for everyone who reads, reviews, and recommends this story, but there just isn't enough ways to say thank you. I'd send every one of you a Robward of your own for Christmas if I could. I've decided to dedicate this one to JeNnNn who swears she "fangirls" every time I update. You crack me up with your reviews, girl. ;-) I love every word of encouragement & feedback that I get from all of you; it makes me all bubbly & stupidly happy, seriously. Ok, enough of my mushy rambling. Let's move forward, shall we? I wish I had better timing with this chapter, but it's Halloween in WA for E & B in this one. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Walls Down**

After having spent a long, mixed-feelings morning with Edward, Bella grudgingly returns to Forks to face whatever form of Charlie will be coming home later. Before she left, she'd made Edward listen to her rehearse a dozen different versions of what she would say to her father. She does not, however, hold much hope that he will be willing to listen to her no matter how articulate she is. Even if he does attend to her words, his reaction is likely to be little more than indifference—or what she perceives as such. When hell had hit the fan Thursday night, she'd wanted so badly for him to scream back at her, to show her some sort of heightened emotion. But he hadn't.

_"I don't know what to do here, Bells," _were the final words he'd said to her before she'd fled to Port Angeles last night.

_Well fuck, Charlie, neither do I_, she thinks as she flops across her unmade bed.

After a few languid stretches and restless roll arounds, she finally falls into an afternoon snooze and dreams of nothing significant. When she awakens a few hours later, the sky is darker, the day having faded into evening. She pulls Edward's red sweatshirt off her body, folds it neatly and stores it in a drawer, all the while wondering how many more of his clothing items she'll be able to procure. She changes into a t-shirt and her favorite pajama bottoms and goes downstairs just long enough to start a load of laundry. Back in her room, she sits cross-legged on her bed and scrolls through the old messages on her phone—all of them from Edward and Alice, of course.

The slam of a car door alerts her of Charlie's arrival. Her stomach churns with apprehension, but it is too late. She's already had too much time to obsess and over think. Her nerve and will are gone as is the mental energy necessary to engage in a "come to Jesus" talk with him. There is much to discuss—their argument, his behavior, her relationship with Edward—but she can't bring herself to move from the bed. As she listens for several minutes to the movement downstairs, she wonders if perhaps he is waiting for her to come speak to him, and she deliberates on doing just that. However, she finds it more likely that he is popping open a beer and getting ready to settle in front of the television to pretend as if last night's scene never happened. Needless to say, she does not expect it when he knocks on her bedroom door and requests to enter.

"Come in," she says, maintaining her seated position on the bed.

Charlie is still clad in his uniform, although his gun belt has been removed. He stands inches from her with his hands on his hips and his expression pensive. Waiting expectantly, she watches the thick, bristly hair above his lip twitch as his mouth works to form words.

"Look, Dad, I—" she starts but he doesn't allow her to finish.

He holds up his palm to stop her and promptly shifts into interrogation mode. "Where did you stay last night?"

"Where do you think?" The clipped tone of her voice causes his face to harden, further accentuating the creases of age and worry that crinkle the corners of his eyes and span across his forehead. For the first time in her life, Charlie appears almost intimidating. She wonders if this is the expression he uses when dealing with town delinquents.

She breaks her cross-legged position and swivels to sit on the edge of the bed. While kneading the comforter in each fist, she stares up at him and begins her defense.

"Edward told me everything last night—about what happened to his family and how you helped them. He speaks so highly of you. He said he was grateful for all that you did for them." To her relief, her father's face softens as she explains further. "He admires you, Dad, and yet you speak of him like he's some sort of criminal. How can you be so opposed to our relationship?"

"That's beside the point, Bella. He tried to kill himself…spent time in a mental hospital, for heaven's sake. Did he tell you all that, too?" Charlie raises an eyebrow and the tone of his agitated voice.

"I'm aware of all that. I know everything, and I don't care. How can you be so judgmental?"

"I'm not saying what happened is his fault. He's not a bad kid, but after what that boy went through, I worry he may not be—"

"_Normal_? _Sane_?" She nearly yells the words and is on her feet before she realizes it. "Dad, I am neither of those things! Any sense of normalcy or sanity I had is long gone by now."

Rubbing a hand over his face, he exhales roughly. "Bella, this is grief. It will get better."

"No, Dad," she argues, shaking her head emphatically. "This is more than grief."

Suddenly, she is thankful for the tears she'd cried into Edward's shirt earlier. They were her quota for the day, and there are none left to shed for now. Crying makes her feel weak, and weakness is the last thing she wants to feel right now. In Charlie's presence, she needs her own brick and mortar façade to match his stone-wall stoicism.

"You can't stop me from seeing him. I'm old enough to do as I please," she reminds him.

Resignedly, he pinches the bridge of his nose and nods. "I know that. You are a grown woman. I can't tell you what to do…can't make decisions for you. Even if I could, you wouldn't listen to me. I just…" He releases a heavy breath and rubs his temple, willing the impending headache to disappear. "Are you being careful with him? I don't want you getting into any trouble—"

"Trouble?" She plants her feet firmly on the floor and places her hands on her hips, mimicking his earlier stance. "Like getting knocked up and being forced into a marriage with someone I don't love? Oh, and then having a kid I rarely see, and when I do finally get time with her, I pretend like she doesn't exist." The blunt end of her sardonic tone has just struck a nerve, and she knows it by the blaze that ignites in his dark eyes.

"Stop it! Just stop it, right there!" Charlie shouts, fuming and more upset than Bella has ever seen him before. "Let's get something straight. I loved your mother. _She _left _me_. And she took you nearly three thousand miles away with her, and I didn't have much of a goddamned say in the matter. I've done the best I can, Bella. I saw you when I could. I have always made sure you never went without. You have a roof over your head and a vehicle, free of charge. And you had the audacity to tell me last night that I don't give a damn about you?! What more do you want from me, Bella?"

_An occasional "I love you", perhaps? Hell, a simple hug would suffice. _She thinks these things, but hesitates to verbalize them.

"I don't know what I want," she mutters after a seemingly infinite pause. She speaks mainly to the floor, not wanting to see the crimson of his face but feeling the heat of his fury scorching her nonetheless. "I want… I want you to stop acting like it hurts you to look at me. I know that I remind you of her, but I can't help that. And I want you to stop passing out on the couch every night. Drinking yourself into oblivion won't make any of this shit right."

Inwardly, she thanks the God that she hopes is still listening to her for giving her the courage to have just stated all that aloud.

Pierced by the sharp edge of truth, Charlie staggers backward and leans against the doorframe with his head hanging like a wounded man. "I know that," he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. "But being angry at me and the rest of the world won't make it right, either. We can't change anything that happened, Bells. If I could, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"Me too," she says meekly and returns to sit on the edge of the bed again. Her head is bowed and eyes closed. She does not see him move to touch her. Cautious, he places a hand on her hunched shoulder. She flinches, caught off-guard by the unexpected contact, and he quickly pulls away.

He wants so badly to say or do something to fix his broken child, but he, too, is broken—his heart so stretched by years of distance from her that it is little more than a misshapen mass. His soul is hardened, encased in two decades worth of pain and resentment. How does one begin to repair after being embittered and alone for so long? Charlie Swan hasn't the slightest clue.

He sighs heavily and turns for the doorway, not knowing what else to say in that moment. "I'm gonna find something to eat. You want anything?" he offers over his shoulder. It is not the best thing to say, but it is better than nothing.

Shaking her head, she mumbles a quiet "no" and watches his retreating form as he closes the door behind him. She moves to sprawl across the bed to cast a mental replay of the conversation that's just transpired, but before she can do so, Charlie pokes his head in the room once more.

"How are they?" he inquires as he leans in the cracked door. Noting the look of confusion on her face, he clarifies. "Edward and his family, I mean."

"He's fine. His family—Carlisle, Alice—they're all doing really well."

He nods, seemingly pleased to receive a positive report on the people in question. "Is Edward good to you?"

Bella battles the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. This is his way, she assumes. This is Charlie's way of expressing the three-word sentiment so commonly uttered by parents to their children. And it is enough…for now.

"Yeah, Dad. He is."

Clearing his throat to make way for something like acceptance and approval, he offers his small amends. "Well, send him my best the next time you see him."

And upon her agreement to pass along said greeting, Charlie shuts the door and fumbles down the stairs.

* * *

The following Saturday night, she finds herself in the neighboring harbor town yet again. _Cullen's _is one of several other local social scenes celebrating the costume-and-candy pagan holiday that bids farewell to one month while ushering in another. The glass-paned doors swing open invitingly with the offering of half-priced drinks and live music. Bella is there for the latter.

"Happy Halloween, B!" Alice greets her at the entrance, balancing a serving tray and a gleaming grin.

Her attire is festive, but tasteful—not morbid or risqué like many of the other getups Bella has spotted flouncing through the streets tonight. The tiny young woman is clad in fuzzy, black bunny ears that sit atop her head like an extension of her gel-spiked bob; her face is accented with painted-on nose and whiskers, as well. She is lithe and energetic much like the creature she portrays as she hops from table to table.

"I'm so glad you're here. Jasper's band is playing tonight," she beams, her eyes sparking with enthusiasm. "And my brother Emmett is visiting for the weekend."

She gestures toward the bar where Carlisle and Edward are hunched over the counter laughing and joking with a bear of a man. His back is turned to Bella, but from what she can see, he is a tall, broad polar-opposite version of Alice. Fraternal twins. She imagines which one of the siblings must have occupied the most space during their developing months and snickers at the comical notion.

"C'mon. I'll introduce you," Alice chimes. Grasping Bella's hand, the petite waitress guides her over to meet her beloved brother.

As soon as Bella spots her bartender's devil-handsome grin shooting from across the room, her wide eyes temporarily shift from Alice and the targeted new figure called Emmett. Edward winks when he sees her approaching and nudges the arm of the large man hovering in front of him. Emmett—all six feet, five inches of his towering form—pivots to look at the object of his cousin's professed affections and flashes a bright smile.

Edward motions to introduce his girl to Emmett but Alice beats him to it. "Em, this is Bella Swan. Bella, this is my brother Emmett," she says, waving her hand between them.

A large, rough hand engulfs hers in a hearty handshake. "Nice to meet you," he bellows in a booming voice tinged with boyish mischief. "I've been hearing a lot about you."

"Oh, I hope Alice has only told you good things," she teases, immediately feeling at ease with the friendly giant. Emmett and Alice share little in physical features aside from hair and eye color, but she immediately discovers the similarity in their amiable dispositions.

"Actually, it's Edward who's been talking my ear off about you," he says with a playful grin. Bella and her bartender wear matching red cheeks in that moment. "It's good to put a face to a name."

"Likewise," she agrees, smiling politely back at him.

Alice chimes in again. "Well, now that you two are acquainted, I've got to get back to work. This place is packed tonight." She grabs her tray and spins on her high heels. "See you guys in a bit," she says with a flick of her wrist and dances away.

Just then, Carlisle's hand comes to rest lightly on Bella's shoulder. "Well, Bella, I'm happy you have finally gotten the chance to meet my son. I am certain he and Alice will provide you with more than enough entertainment for tonight." The dashing, gray-templed man smiles warmly at her, and she reciprocates.

"I apologize," he continues. "I didn't realize you were Chief Swan's daughter until recently. Please tell him I said hello." Before he excuses himself from the group, she promises to pass along Carlisle's regards to her father.

Bella takes a seat beside Emmett at the bar, and they engage in casual chatter as they observe Edward's meticulous actions of mixing and pouring potions for the lively crowd. Whenever there is a break in drink orders, Edward pauses to join in their dialogue, leaning across the polished bar and making sure to touch Bella with each passing visit. Craving contact, he brushes aside wayward strands of her hair just to gain a feel her soft cheek. He whispers in her ear for a quick taste of her honey-vanilla scent. She does the same, taking advantage of the proximity to indulge in the slightest sensation of his skin upon hers. It is not lust, but yearning. Pure, magnetic yearning.

The night progresses smoothly with an air of general splendor—the mingling of food, alcohol, and conversation superimposed on the background beats of Jasper's band. The music becomes a constant pulsing rhythm, feeding a steady stream of positive energy to the swaying bodies in the crowd. Every now and then, the dirty blonde bass player flashes a wink or nods his head to acknowledge two special ladies in the audience; the wink is for his love, the nod is for a new friend.

Despite the catchy tunes radiating from the stage, all Bella can think about is her desire to hear the dulcet tones of her bartending beau. With a wave of her hand, she beckons Edward over once again.

"Are you not playing at all tonight?" she inquires hopefully, but he shakes his head.

"Sorry, Love. It's all Jas tonight," he answers apologetically. The glint of optimism in her brown eyes is lost immediately. He slants forward and grazes her ear with the tip of his nose; his warm breath caresses the sensitive area. "But if you want, I can sing you to sleep later."

The suggestive nature of his offer escapes his notice at first. In all honesty, he is hoping to save her from the late drive home by inviting her to stay with him like she had the week before. She is welcome to sleep in his bed—to rest chastely in his arms—if she so chooses, without expectations from him. He knows she is exhausted after having been awake since dawn and working hard at the diner. If comfort is what she needs, he will not deny her the soothing quality of his lullaby.

A surge of tingling heat rushes through her body as the earlier yearning for his closeness becomes a hunger far less innocent. The flush of her face and the slackening of her jaw alerts him to her misunderstanding.

"You can crash at my place if you're too tired to drive all the way back to Forks," he refines. "We can sleep late and grab breakfast like we did last time since you're off tomorrow."

His hesitant pace is not for lack of desire, for the thought of taking her has crossed his mind many times. He is more than eager, but she is leading this dance, letting him know what is too much or not enough along the way. He refuses to push or pressure her. Slow is safe in a delicate situation such as theirs.

She smiles through a yawn and willingly accepts the offer. The heaviness of her lids makes her reluctant to endure the hour-long commute and she's not ready to part from him just yet.

"Okay. Sounds good to me," she replies in a drowsy slur.

At a quarter till one, the band plays its final song and Edward announces last call. While he and the rest of the employees work to complete their closing tasks, Bella chats with Emmett at a corner table. The curly-haired young Cullen recounts humorous stories of when he, Alice, and Edward were little kids. He tells her about his days as an offensive lineman at Forks High School, and shares details of his new job in the athletic department at UCLA. With every smile, his boyish dimples show, emanating an affable, carefree mood. Emmett proves to be good company, and Bella is thankful for making another acquaintance in Port Angeles.

After parting hugs and "goodnights" are exchanged among the group and the bar doors are locked, the couple returns to Edward's apartment to call it a night just before 2 a.m. A steady throb pounds in Bella's right temple and her eyes ache for slumber. She is tired, but she doesn't want to be. They shed their coats at the door and amble toward the bed, their strides long and lazy. After kicking off their shoes and socks, they trade their jeans for pajama pants—with Bella borrowing a pair of well-worn flannels from his dresser drawer. She crawls beneath the cozy covers first and he follows, curving his body behind hers. With his arm looped around her waist, he draws her near, wrapping her in the warm safety of his embrace.

"Sing to me," she whispers in the darkness. "Please."

And he does. A familiar song flows from his lips, the lyrics threaded with silk and comfort. Her breathing slows and becomes a steady, peaceful cadence as she drifts into dreams, swaddled in the numbing blanket of his voice.


	23. Chapter 23: Bittersweet Knowledge

**Warning: **This story is rated **M** for a reason. In other words, the lemonade stand is officially open for business from here on out. So, here goes my first attempt at tasteful smut.

Songs that got me going for this chapter: "Volcano" by Damien Rice, "Desire" by Ryan Adams, & "Breathing" by Lifehouse.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Bittersweet Knowledge **

The second week of November marks two months. Two months since her nineteenth birthday. Two months since she'd waltzed into _Cullen's _bar alone and tasted her first dose of that intoxicating Novocain voice.

Like every other weekend, Bella coaxes her rattling Chevy into surviving the drive to Port Angeles. On a lazy Sunday evening, she and Edward meet Alice and Jasper at the downtown Cineplex to watch a seven o'clock show. The four of them stand outside at the ticket window studying the list of showings, but the choices are slim. Two romantic comedies, a tear-jerking drama, an animated holiday film, and one action flick. None of them sounds the least bit appealing to Bella or Edward. She is adamantly opposed to anything with a depressing plotline or humor geared toward a PG audience, and Edward agrees, vying for the action blockbuster. Alice pitches the romantic comedies, stating that laughter releases endorphins, while Jasper claims indifference. Using her well-honed skills of persuasion, Alice eventually entices her only female companion to side with her in choosing one of the comical love stories.

Upon purchasing the tickets, Edward and Jasper follow their respective dates to the snack counter to load up on soda, popcorn, and sugary treats. The modest theater is surprisingly packed for a Sunday, but the crowded atmosphere does little to distract the bronze-haired bartender from his brown-eyed girl. They grab four seats near the back with Alice and Bella sitting beside each other in the middle. The couples munch contentedly on their shared buckets of popcorn and boxes of candy, occasionally exchanging whispered comments about funny moments in the movie. Alice nestles her ebony hair on Jasper's shoulder, while Bella and Edward hover so closely over the same armrest that their cheeks are practically touching. When the credits finally roll, all but Alice agree that the previews were the most entertaining part of the entire show. But that's not really important.

The couples part ways for the night, bidding their mutual goodbyes and promising to get together again sometime soon. As he drives back to his apartment, Edward struggles to shift his gaze from Bella. A white streak of moonlight filters through the Volvo's window, illuminating the pale cream of her skin and casting an almost ethereal glow on her features. When she catches him staring, she laughs softly and sweeps a hand through her long, dark locks. From the corner of her eye, she watches him, too, noting the sharp angle of his jaw, his featherlike lashes, and the straight slope of his nose that crinkles in the most adorable way with every crooked grin.

The ride back to his building ends too soon. He exits the car, pulling his coat tighter around him in response to the chilly air as he goes to open the passenger door for her. As usual, she beats him to it and meets him on the driver's side. She glances at her truck parked only a few feet away, but she cannot will her legs to move in that direction. He fumbles anxiously with his keys in his pocket, debating on asking her to stay. He knows she has to be at work early in the morning; sleeping over at his place tonight will only be an inconvenience. Still…

Reluctant to leave just yet, she leans her back against the side of the car. He reaches out to cup her wind-blistered cheek and rubs his thumb in smooth circles as he angles her face upward. Their lips meet, forming a heated contrast to the cold around them. The movement of his mouth becomes more urgent, passionate—a wordless plea for her company. The feel of cold metal through her fleece jacket sends a shiver through her body as he pins her harder against the car. Realizing his wavering control and not wanting to bruise her rosebud lips, he pulls away.

Panting breath is the only audible sound for seemingly endless seconds in the frigid darkness. With his forehead resting against hers and his hand cradling her neck, he fights his apprehension no longer.

"I'm in love with you, Bella Swan," he says, each word firm and deliberate. "Absolutely in love."

Caught off-guard by his sudden professed sentiment, she struggles to process the words. She feels it…wants to speak it…but cannot. All she can do is breathe and attempt to comprehend the surreal scene as it unfolds.

_Love_. She is the face coloring his dreams. He is the song playing in her ear.

_Love._ Does he speak truth or falsehoods? She wants to believe she sees it in his actions. Carrying her bruised body through the alley. Wiping away her smeared mascara. Humming her lullaby and singing her comfort. Confessing his worst and listening to hers in return. Lying beside her on the beach and asking for a chance. All of it must be love. And the way he is looking at her now—as if his whole existence depends upon her reciprocation of said feelings—must be love.

Thick silence becomes overwhelming while he waits. "Bella?" he says expectantly. The emerald of his eyes is alight with a new flame that burns for her. "I love you," he repeats, worried that she may have misunderstood. For seconds more, he waits… Then, she responds in a way that is far different from what he was anticipating at this point.

Reaching up, she tangles her fingers in his artful mess of auburn hair and melds her mouth to his in a rough kiss. Impulsively, her hands meet his chest and travel downward, coming to rest suggestively at the waistband of his jeans.

_Right or wrong? Trust or fear? Too soon or just right? _Her head whirls, body warring with mind. _Are you ready for this, Bella? _Inwardly, she questions her actions over and over again. However, the chemicals in her blood—like accelerant to a blue flame—overpower the voice in her head.

She peers up at him with curiosity and longing, allowing her eyes to ask the question that her tongue cannot. He matches her gaze with equal desire, his body responding quickly to hers and aching for further contact.

"Are you sure?" he asks, hopeful…but hesitant.

"Yes," she replies, certain…but uncertain.

In hurried fashion, they move from the parking lot to his apartment upstairs. He searches for the light switch after shutting the door, but she tells him that she prefers the dim glow of the small lamp in the corner. In a stumbling, unsteady dance, they cross the room, removing their jackets and shoes along the way. Shaky fingers unzip and unbutton, tugging and pulling at fabric until the pieces of material lay in haphazard piles on the floor. Strips of thin cotton and lace are all that remains to obscure their bare forms now. Once the realization of what it is to commence sets in, they slow their hasty actions to a more tentative pace. Questioning, he looks to her again for permission; nodding, she gives it.

He runs his hands over the satin and lace covering her chest until his searching fingers find the clasp at the back. She assists him in his efforts, reaching behind her to unfasten the hooks. The fabric hangs loosely for a moment before he slides the straps off of her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor by the bed. He coaxes her to lie back on the sheets while he lingers over her, lavishing scattered rows of kisses down her neck. She recoils slightly when he touches the jagged scars on her arm and shoulder. By tracing the raised pink lines with his lips, he reassures her that the blemishes don't matter. Her flesh prickles with millions of tiny bumps when his mouth and hands find the soft peaks of her breasts. In reciprocation, she runs her palms over the fair skin of his chest and stomach, feeling the fine trail of hair on his torso and discovering the occasional freckle.

Kiss and touch. Explore and uncover. So fast it goes, yet so slow.

When his mouth completes its descent from her neck to her waist, he pauses. His eyes request her consent once more, and again, it is granted. When her last article of clothing is removed and tossed to the side, he moves from the bed and opens the drawer of the nightstand. She sits up on the bed with her knees folded to her naked chest and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, quietly observing as he sifts through the top drawer for a box. He finds it—the box he's had no cause to open yet—and retrieves one of the foil packets. He discards his underwear, silently thankful for the muted lamplight. The dimness makes the insecurity of sudden exposure more bearable for the both of them. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of him, completely nude and obviously responsive to her presence. With learning eyes, she studies his nervous hands as he unwraps the contents of the packet carefully and rolls the latex over his length. A shy grin curves his mouth when he notices her analytical gaze, and she ducks her head to hide her own awkward-moment smirk.

The atmosphere becomes a brewing storm of trepidation and desire when the time finally comes. Trembling hands. Quickened pulse. Timid smiles. Bella turns down the covers, lies back on the cool sheets, and makes an ill-fated attempt to calm her racing heart. Edward joins her, his mind reeling with anxious anticipation as he offers her kisses of reassurance. He knows he is her first, and this is not something he takes lightly. He wants it to be right…wants everything to be perfect. But he knows it won't be. Can't be.

Though he is no stranger to the act, this time is unlike any other. A new emotion is present, one that was never there in past experiences. There is a stark contrast between the emptiness of lust and the fulfillment of love, and tonight—in the arms of Bella Swan—he is learning the difference. Because she is more. More than trivial teenage love. More than foolish fun. More than a warm body to pass the time.

Balanced on hands and knees above her, he stares intently into her dark eyes and asks her to make a promise. "If it hurts too much, tell me and I will stop."

Nodding, she whispers, "Okay."

Although, she has a vague idea of how this first time is supposed to go, there is a certain naivety to many of her notions. All she knows are the small details relayed from friends and the images of gratuitous Hollywood love scenes. Part of her wishes she had not stopped her ears from her mother's blunt explanations, but it's too late for that now. Each moment is surreal. So many times she has wondered how this experience might happen. Like any other curious teenage mind, she'd pondered the who, when, and where many times before. And now, on this cold November night, all of those questions are being answered. It is strange and beautiful and frightening, but it's right. Isn't it? She is pouring all of her trust into him, surrendering a sacred piece of herself that she knows she can never get back.

Hovering above her, he positions himself between her knees and together, they prepare for the action that will break the last physical barrier that remains between them. Slowly…cautiously…he pushes through, entering her with a careful, calculated motion. She inhales sharply, wincing at the sudden sting and pressure. Abruptly, his movements cease, and he presses his forehead to hers.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he whispers. "So, so sorry." But before he can withdraw, she grips his waist firmly and braces for more.

"Don't. Just…slow, very slow," she tells him in a low, quivering voice.

Compliant, he makes a final, careful thrust, completing their intimate synchronization. Gradually, her body starts to adjust—the pain and discomfort becoming slightly more tolerable—and she permits him to continue. In time she begins moving with him, her hips attempting to match his in an uncertain push-pull that finally becomes a measured rhythm.

She tries to focus on the combination of new sensations—his warmth and weight upon her, his heart pounding against hers, his body filling her completely. But she cannot. She closes her eyes and tries to relax, to take pleasure in the friction of their bodies gliding together. But she cannot.

This is nothing like the blissful experience of her dreams. It is neither wonderful nor terrible, but something in between. A bittersweet knowledge.

The minutes pass; how many, she cannot tell for sure. The only sounds in the otherwise silent loft are gasping breaths and rustling bed linen. She hears the change in his breathing, the groans escaping his mouth. Her splayed fingers feel the muscles tensing in his back, and she senses that the journey is nearly over. Completely spent, he comes undone in her arms and falls upon her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He lifts his head to study her expression but finds it indiscernible.

"Are you okay?" He utters his concern in a tremulous voice, but she assures him several times that she if fine.

Clutching her to his chest, he rolls them over until they are lying on their sides facing each other. He gently brushes a sweat-dampened strand of her hair behind her ear and caresses her flushed cheek.

"I'm sorry it wasn't…" he stammers fretfully. "It will be better next time."

Her smile, although a meek one, puts him at ease. "It's alright, Edward. Don't apologize. I'm not good at this."

Placing a kiss on her forehead, he shushes her and whispers his love. He leaves the bed just long enough to discard the latex and returns to join her curled-up form beneath the blanket. He nestles behind her, wrapping his arm around her bare stomach and conforms his shape to hers. Drowsiness overtakes him long before it does her, and soon she hears the steady sound of his deep, peaceful breathing. For several hours she drifts in and out of consciousness before finally succumbing to exhaustion.

* * *

_"Don't ever fall in love, Isabella." _

_A familiar pair of eyes peers up at her. They are bloodshot, swollen and rimmed in red. The thirty-something woman is sitting like a crumpled ball on the kitchen floor, her back resting against the white cabinetry. She is sobbing, lamenting how she has become a hollow shell of broken dreams and lifelong disappointment. Through her streaming tears and cracking voice, she gives Bella a warning._

_"You may have fun while it lasts, but it's not worth the heartache you suffer in the end."_

_The woman rises from the floor and grasps her young daughter's hand. With a gentle tug, she beckons her to follow. Together, they walk with heavy footsteps down the hallway to the master bedroom, coming to a halt at the closet. The woman opens the double doors and reveals a blank space. All of the shelves are vacant; the clothing rod holds a row of empty swinging hangers. The faint scent of cologne is all that remains of her mother's unfaithful significant other. _

_"You see?" she speaks again, pointing to the black emptiness. "They leave. They lie. They use you up, pack their bags, and leave."_

_Bella argues, remembering a previous conversation. "But what about the time before? He said _you_ left _him_."_

_She shakes her head. "We were young and foolish. It was bound to fail eventually."_

_Her mother steps closer, takes Bella's face in her hands and wills her to listen. "Don't get trapped, baby girl. You are better off alone. Run."_

* * *

Bella awakens suddenly, her eyes swollen and face wet with hot tears. A wave of nausea twists her stomach as she recalls the nightmare that has just jolted her from sleep. It was a mixture of memories within a dream—a scene that had played out only a year before her mother's death. Phil had left Renee a brokenhearted mess, and Bella had witnessed a strong woman shatter like glass in front of her.

It wasn't exactly right. The colors were off, the words were slightly altered, and the hallway was longer than it should have been. Of course, there had been no mention of Charlie when the actual conversation had taken place. She'd lost count of the times Renee had warned her about the follies of youth—the false idea of romance, the consequences of sex. Heartbreak. A warning against heartbreak.

_Oh God, Bella Swan, what did you just do?_ Doubt and fear riddle her disoriented mind.

_You are making the same mistakes_, she chides repeatedly, thinking of how her mother would scold her for her impulsive actions. Her roaming hands are to blame for initiating this.

If she is truthful with herself, she knows that these negative thoughts are the result of multifaceted fear—the fear of becoming the victim, or more importantly, the fear of being the criminal. But this must end before it progresses any further. Hurt you before you can hurt me—it is a coward's game, but one she is going to play.

She peeks over her shoulder at Edward. He is sleeping soundly behind her with his arm draped over her sheet-covered hip. She wonders what it will be like when the light of morning finally filters through the window revealing the evidence of the night's occurrence: the clothing strewn about the floor, the empty condom wrapper on the night table, and her innocence lost.

Will he behave differently when he wakes up? Will he come to realize that loving her is a mistake? Will he see that she truly is more troubled and hopeless than he could ever be? She decides she doesn't want to find out.

When she shifts her legs, preparing to leave the cozy warmth, she notices that she is sore—not unbearably so, but enough to serve as a reminder of all that transpired for the rest of the day. At 4:12 a.m. she quietly crawls out of his bed, retrieves her clothing and purse, and dresses on her way to the door. And by 4:16 a.m., Bella Swan does what she does best.

She runs away.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, you probably hate me & Bella right now, and I understand. Are you confused? frustrated? Yeah, me too. I ask that you please have faith. There is a method to my madness, I swear! As for the lemon, this is the first one I have ever written. If it is awful, I will try to do better in the future (and yes, there will be future citrusy goodness). There will be angst for the next two chapters. For that, I apologize in advance. Trust me, it won't be any fun for me to write; however, I promise that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and no, it is not a train). Leaving you guys with a cliffhanger like this is cruel, but I will return with an update shortly after Christmas.

*Now for the most important part of this long-ass author's note:

I am beyond ecstatic about the influx of sweet reviews and encouraging words I have been receiving these past few days. I am incredibly thankful to AG for recommending this story and immensely grateful to the reader who brought my story to her attention. You have given me a wonderful Christmas gift, and I love you for it! If I were the type to cry tears of joy, I would.

Happy Holidays, everybody! :-D


	24. Chapter 24: Self Inflicted Wounds

**A/N: **This is long, but it's important! First, just holy freaking wow at the positive response to my last chapter! I hope I replied to everyone; if I missed you, I apologize. Also, a big thank you to my anonymous reviewers who don't have FFnet accounts & to my RL Alice who humors me by reading this story!

To ssherrill115, who has a wonderful little site called Southern Fan Fiction Review, THANK YOU for your kind review of OR&N! You are awesome. I encourage all of you to check out her site; I found it by accident a few months ago & love it. She reviews all kinds of stories & even has guest reviewers. I've discovered some amazing fics to add to my reading list because of her (plus, she has some really cute pics of Rob on there). The link: www (dot) southernfanfictionreview (dot) com

I posted an EPOV of Ch. 23 as a separate story; it would've disrupted the flow of the story had I posted it as another chapter. Click on my profile and check it out, if you like. You may actually want to read it before continuing with this chapter. It will give you a quick Edward fix since he's not in this one, and it may provide you with better insight to his character and to what is happening.

Sorry about all that. Here is the depressing angst for you. For obvious reasons, I had the New Moon soundtrack on repeat the whole time I was writing this, as well as "Knife" by Grizzly Bear. :-(

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Self-Inflicted Wounds **

There is no rain.

There is no sun.

There is only fog.

The light of day won't pierce the early morning darkness for at least another three hours. The headlights of her Chevy penetrate the black vapor as she speeds westward on the highway. She feels separate from her body, as if she is seated in a theater watching her life played out on a large screen. The only things that let her know this is real are the phantom sensation of his weight pressed heavily upon her and the lingering ache from being broken. Since the first time he had kissed her in his apartment—with their mouths and breaths united as they sat astride the piano bench—she'd longed for it, dreamed about it. And last night, her curious fantasies had finally come to fruition...somewhat. Although physical desire and heady emotions had eclipsed the voice of reason that told her she was not ready, she'd allowed his body to occupy hers—to enter uncharted territory, expanding her, claiming her.

Now her body is a bruise, the flesh tender and sore, and her head and heart are battling in a civil war that's been brewing since this tumbledown love began. The haunting dream of her mother replays in her mind like a movie. Bella knows precisely what Renee would think if she were here now, if she knew what had taken place only hours ago. She would scold her and tell her that when silly girls fall in love with stupid boys, mistakes happen—like a baby you're too young to have, like a shotgun wedding that ends in packed bags and 2,600 miles of bitter distance.

In addition to musings of her mother, she hears Edward's words echoing in her ear. Beneath the canopy a starless Port Angeles sky he had professed his affections aloud. Part of her wants to believe that his spoken sentiment is true. The other part—the part that willed her to flee from his arms—hopes that it is all a lie. Perhaps her departure will hurt him less if there is no truth to the words he had spoken.

_He can't possibly love me. Even if he does now, he won't forever. Sooner or later, the bottom drops out. Always has, always will. It is only a matter of when. _

Shortly after five a.m., she rolls into the Forks city limits and steers toward Charlie's house. The tears that had streaked her cheeks upon awakening have run dry. She refuses to cry again regardless of the throbbing knot suspended in her throat. She wonders how long it will take for him to wake up and realize her absence. If he finds the right side of his bed cold and vacant he is sure to worry. Suddenly wishing she had thought to leave a note, she taps out a quick text message. Although ink on paper would be less cruel, she decides that this is better than nothing at all.

Unable to think of anything else—for what else could there be to say—she types the only two words that seem appropriate: _I'm sorry_.

_He deserves better than this, _she chants repeatedly in her mind. _It is better this way…for both of us. _

When she arrives home, she finds her father hovering over the coffeemaker and cursing the damned thing for not operating properly. He has risen early for work, and is going about his usual routine of preparing his morning caffeine fix. The loud creak of the door hinge alerts him of his daughter's return. Squinting with sleepy eyes, he scrutinizes her disheveled form. Her brown locks have the messy appearance of a work-in-progress bird nest; her eyes are bordered underneath by swollen, purplish circles. Scanning her wrinkled clothing, he tries not to think about how she has managed to get into such a state of disarray. He knows where she's been.

He grumbles a "good morning" while scratching his stubbled jaw.

"Morning," she mutters before padding up the stairs to the bathroom.

Beneath the hot spray of the shower, she rinses away the evidence of the previous night. She increases the temperature of the water but it does little to soothe her. There is no consoling her now, no alleviation for the deep-rooted anger and sorrow. Everything hurts like hell, and she has no one to blame but herself for the pain of these self-inflicted wounds. As if entranced, she stares at the swirling suds as they spiral down the gurgling drain. The water eventually runs cold, forcing her to exit the shower.

She dresses in the first sweater and pair of jeans she finds, forgoes applying any makeup, and ties her hair in sloppy bundle atop her head. There is no reason to care about appearances today. Dawn pierces through the curtains, casting a too-bright light across her bedroom; pouring rain would be more fitting for a day like this. She looks at the mirror above her dresser, loathing the girl staring back at her. When the sight of her own reflection becomes unbearable, she heads downstairs for her truck. The worn leather seat is freezing, but she doesn't turn on the heater. She deserves to be cold.

On her way to the diner, she hears the familiar heartbreaking melody of Debussy ringing from her phone. _Clair de Lune _is one of the many classical pieces he knows by heart, a song she once hated but has come to love because it is his favorite. The ringtone plays once…twice…three times before it ceases completely. She reaches into the front pocket of her purse for the phone and flips it open to silence it. It takes every ounce of resolve not to return the missed calls just to hear his voice and to offer some sort of apology—though no words could possibly explain or justify her actions.

_Forget about me. Move on. I am broken and you are healed. _

As she pulls into the parking lot of the diner, her phone vibrates with what she knows is a message from him. Reluctantly, she opens the text and nearly bursts into tears when she reads the simple letters on the screen:

_Please._

With no clue of what else to do, she turns the phone off and settles for total silence. A clean break.

* * *

Each day follows the same, painfully slow pattern. Her double shifts at the diner provide no solace. The customers, Cal, and even Jess are nowhere near enough to distract her from thoughts of him. Cold. Clouded. Colorless. The routine malaise that Bella had grown accustomed to before meeting Edward sets in once again. It starts out as a dull ache on Monday and steadily progresses to an agonizing throb in her chest by Wednesday's end.

She hopes that their time apart is having a less excruciating effect on him than it is on her. Surely, he can't be feeling this—this nagging sting, this insatiable longing. If he is, she prays that his recovery is quick. With little success, she repeatedly tries to convince her heart that the twisting-knife misery will eventually subside. It must.

_This will fade in time, Edward. It will be as if I never existed._

* * *

_Clair de Lune _has not played since the three subsequent calls on Monday. The first text that morning had been the last. She assumes he has given up, admittedly more easily and more quickly than she'd like; however, Thursday proves her assumptions false. After her waitressing duties are done for the day, she grabs her purse on her way out the door and checks the clock on her phone. The awaiting voicemail takes her by surprise. Cowardly apprehension forces her to wait until she arrives home before she works up the nerve to listen to it. Sprawled across the lilac comforter on her bed, she holds the phone to her hesitant ear and listens as his anguished voice douses the raw, frayed edges of her soul with brine.

"Bella, I wish you would answer. I don't understand what I…" He trails off, and she can hear him breathing for several seconds before he continues.

"I want to apologize, but honestly, I'm not sure what the hell I'd be apologizing for. Was it too soon? Did I do something wrong? I don't know because your refuse to talk to me."

He exhales an audible gust, clearly frustrated and confused. She has the urge to reach across to the other side, cradle his face in her palms, and assure him that every bit of this is absolutely her fault. That faith and trust are concepts she cannot seem to comprehend. That this would have ended one way or another the way that all so-called love does. That the pain will disappear faster if only he will let her go.

"Christ, Bella, I wish you'd let me know that you're okay. I… Can we…" And again he stumbles over his words. There is an elongated pause, a sickening silence that causes moisture to prick the corners of her eyes. Then finally…

"I love you." It is the last statement he makes before the phone clicks and the message ends.

_You will get over this, Edward. It's just a silly emotion—a chemical reaction in the brain, a trick of the mind. _

But she knows she is only deceiving herself.

Resignedly, she hurls the phone across the room, and it lands with a thud on the carpet next to her desk. Choking sobs rattle her body as she curls fetal and buries her head into the pillow. The tear-soaked pillowcase does little to muffle the cries that escape from her mouth. From the hallway, Charlie detects the pitiful sounds emanating from his daughter's bedroom. He presses his ear to the door, his hand hovering tentatively over the knob, and debates on entering. She isn't one to succumb to tears often. He sifts through his memory trying to recall another instance when she'd been this upset, but he can't. Not since Renee's funeral, that is.

"Bells?" he calls as he taps lightly on the door.

She doesn't even lift her head to answer. Instead, she mumbles the lie that she is fine and wants to be left alone. For the remainder of the week, a helpless Charlie Swan witnesses his daughter's unraveling. Before his eyes, she wilts and withers like a dying flower that had only just begun to bloom after months of darkness and drought. Little does he know that her current suffering, although self-imposed for the most part, is the consequence of a mother's cynicism and a father's reticence.

* * *

The following weekend proves to be the worst. In her despondent, zombie-like state she manages to drop a full serving tray on Cal's floor during her single shift on Saturday. Shortly after mopping up the mess of splattered food and broken dishware, she loses her grip on one of the coffee pots and watches it shatter at her feet. The scalding liquid splashes Cal's khakis, thus eliciting a string of expletives and a good five-minute sermon on the importance of attentiveness in the workplace.

When the lunch rush is over, she is free to leave for the day, but she dreads all the free time she'll have to think until Monday. As she approaches her truck, she swears she can smell him. The faintest hint of a familiar scent hangs in the air—his unique cologne and cigarette blend—as if he's just left from the parking lot. Her suspicions are confirmed when she opens the rusty door and finds a white sheet of notebook paper folded in half and placed carefully on the steering wheel. The blue lines are heavily imprinted from the pressure of a struggling hand and faded from repeated erasure. The writer had clearly been indecisive as he drafted his composition, but he'd settled on four simple words and a signature. From the page, they glare at her in dark grey pencil. The unmistakable, elegant script reads:

_You're afraid. Don't be._

_-E._

Jessica passes by the old Chevy on her way to Mike's Tahoe and sees the wreckage that is her coworker. Pausing to rubberneck for a moment, she quirks her over-tweezed eyebrow in brief wonder at the slender form crumpled over the steering wheel, weeping and clutching a piece of paper in her left hand. She shakes her head, thinking no more of it, and runs the rest of the way to meet her boyfriend in his idling SUV.

* * *

Sunday morning is even worse than Saturday. Charlie is hunting with friends from the Quileute reservation, and Bella is home alone, un-showered and clad in holey pajama pants—as well as a red Seattle sweatshirt. It is the proverbial straw that breaks her back when she opens the front door to discover a glaring Alice standing on the porch with her manicured hand perched on her hip and her golden eyes aflame with searing indignation.

"What the_ hell_ is your problem?!" the ebony-haired doll demands, her musical tone singing in a very minor chord.

A stunned Bella steps backward, nearly tripping on the living room rug in the process. "Excuse me?"

"Do you have any idea what you are doing to him? Who do you think you are?"

Bella gawks in astonishment at this rawer, bolder version of her friend. She is defending her flesh and blood, and Bella cannot blame her righteous actions. Alice steps inside and unconsciously slams the door behind her. Her hands do almost as much talking as her mouth as she forges ahead with her tirade.

"After all he's been through, after he's spent the last three years putting himself back together and he has finally returned to some form of normal…" Her styled hair bobs as she shakes her head incredulously.

"He let you in, Bella. Do you know how hard I've been trying to encourage him to let someone in?" Alice continues to stare at Bella with furrowed brows, not expecting an answer. "And now you come along and break his heart."

On the verge of tears, Bella's chin begins to quiver. She tangles her fingers in her hair and tugs at the oily roots until the scalp hurts as the guilt of having taken more than given becomes overwhelming. With a softened expression, Alice approaches Bella and touches her cheek as the tears start streaming down. Suddenly, she comprehends her friend's turmoil; it is fear, not callousness that has provoked her actions.

"Bella, he loves you," she coos reassuringly. "I know him like a brother. I would tell you no lie." Her voice returns to its usual sanguine sweetness as she holds Bella's sallow face in her tiny hands. "You love him too, don't you?"

She nods her head with conviction, knowing full well that Edward Masen has become something far more significant than she ever imagined. He possesses the remaining splintered pieces of her heart…and has since the moment he'd picked her up from the wet alley pavement and brought her into his life.

"I do, Alice," she replies through an emotion-thickened voice. "I really, really do."

"Then stop running, B." She grasps Bella's cheeks firmly, willing her to listen. Her glowing caramel eyes glisten with freshly forming tears. "Don't think for one second that I haven't told Edward the same thing before."

Reconciled, Alice embraces her with greater strength in her arms than her petite body should allow. "Edward doesn't know about this," she whispers in her ear.

Smiling minutely, Bella nods her understanding. "Of course not."

Bella opens the front door for her and steps aside to let her leave. Before Alice says goodbye, she stops, swivels on her high-heeled shoes, and offers a parting remark to the girl in which her faith has been restored.

"He will wait for you, Bella," she tells her. "But not forever."

* * *

_Stop running._

These are the words she needs to hear right now. In the nine months that have passed since March, she has been running instead of fighting. Escaping instead of coping. For the first time, Bella begins to understand Charlie. She begins to understand a lot of things, actually. Like her sullen father, she has been separating herself from pain, self-medicating and shutting out the world. The numbing quality of Edward's voice—his touch, his presence—has served as a blanket of relief, just like Charlie's whiskey and beer. His alcohol; her Novocain. Escape.

Then, she also realizes that Renee had been guilty of the same crime. She had run away from Charlie and then allowed one other man's mistakes to completely tarnish her perception of the world. In her final years, she'd become embittered, untrusting, and had managed to infect her only daughter with the same poisonous resentment.

On the path to self-destruction, those that stand too close become collateral damage, unintentional casualties. It is not right. It is no excuse, but at least it is an explanation. Bella is her parents' collateral damage, but she refuses to allow Edward or anyone else to become hers. Shielding oneself from pain means also denying oneself pleasure—the pleasure of life and of love. Risk is necessary.

_He is worth the risk._

* * *

**A/N: **Many of you are probably wondering why Bella is so down on herself, why she feels she is unworthy of his affection; that will be revealed in future chapters. There is a deeper reason that may be unclear at this point. Still got a ways to go…

As always, reviews are appreciated but just knowing that you are still reading makes me happy!


	25. Chapter 25: Absolution

**A/N: **Playing on repeat in the background: "Dismantle, Repair" by Anberlin

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Absolution **

The minute the yellow Porsche pulls away from the driveway on Sunday morning, Bella hurries upstairs and strips out of her pajamas. She tosses the holey flannel pants to the floor but takes special care to neatly fold the red sweatshirt and return it to the drawer. While scrambling to the bathroom for a much-needed shower, she begins chanting a prayer—a desperate plea for mercy that she'll continue to repeat silently for hours to come.

She does not expect his forgiveness, but she hopes for it, nonetheless.

Cleansing streams of soapy water cascade down her body washing away more than twenty-four hours worth of oil, sweat, and tears. She stands beneath the steaming spray furiously scrubbing away the grime until she is renewed. She towels off and dresses quickly, leaving her wet locks to dry in the winter air. There is no more time for delay. A week has been far too long. She hops into her truck and speeds in the right direction, frantically seeking the absolution she knows she does not deserve.

* * *

An hour before noon, she arrives in Port Angeles and rolls to a stop beside the silver car. As she enters the building she pauses at the base of the stairwell—the stairwell that had witnessed his arms carrying her and her feet fleeing him. Clutching the banister firmly, she starts to climb but releases the supporting rail abruptly as her heart begins to burn with blazing guilt.

_I should be crawling up these steps on my hands and knees_, she thinks woefully.

With clenched fists at her sides and the desperate prayer resounding in her head, she continues her ascent to the top of the stairs. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply as she knocks on his apartment door. After it remains unanswered for several unbearable seconds, she leans closely and presses her ear to the cold wood in hopes of hearing footsteps. Nothing. She knocks again, this time rapping more forcefully until her knuckles hurt; once more, she leans in to listen for something—anything—but hears nothing. Not even the faintest sounds of shuffling or breathing from the other side. Turning her back to the door, she lets her body fall against the hard surface, causing a loud thud that echoes through the empty hall. Resignedly, she slides downward, letting her body crumble to the floor, and pulls her knees to her chest. And she waits…

When the position becomes uncomfortable, she stretches her legs straight and rests her chewed-nail hands in her lap. One by one, the tears trickle down. She lets them fall wherever, not caring enough to wipe them on her sleeve. Although her chin quivers and her eyes redden, her face does not break into full sobs.

For sixty-two minutes—and she knows for certain because she checks the time on her phone obsessively—she waits. She becomes so accustomed to the thick silence that she startles at the sudden noise of a creaking door from downstairs. At once, she is up and panting anxiously as she listens to footsteps padding up the stairs. She fidgets impatiently, waiting for a coppery nest of hair to come into view, and she swears that nothing has ever taken so long before.

When he appears on the landing, he stops and stares blankly at her for a lengthy moment. She finds no hint of surprise on his face, or any detectable emotion, for that matter. He looks sickly, almost unrecognizable from the beautiful man she'd left a week ago. The black long-sleeved shirt accentuates the strange ashen color of his skin. His tired eyes are rimmed in red, and the five-o'clock shadow he wears is thicker than usual. In one hand, he holds his keys; in the other, he clutches a paper coffee cup and a new pack of Marlboros.

"Hey, Edward," she speaks finally. Every bit of the speech she's been planning for the past hour swiftly disappears, leaving her to improvise. "I've been waiting for you. I saw your car outside—"

"I decided to walk," he interrupts in monotone.

Shifting his eyes from hers, he says nothing more and walks forward with key in hand. She steps aside, quietly observing as he fumbles with the lock. Except for the blank stare and flat statement he gave her upon arrival, he acts as if he is oblivious to her presence. His hands are noticeably shaking, making the task of unlocking the door take longer than it should. Finally, he manages it and leaves the door open behind him. Nervous and uncertain, she stands in the entryway and watches as he sets his things on the countertop.

"May I come in?" she asks meekly.

He slowly turns around and leans against the counter, crossing his arms in front of him. He clears his throat and nods permissively. Somewhat relieved, she steps inside and softly shuts the door behind her. One glance at the surroundings reveals the aftermath of the misery she has caused. She scans the expanse of the room, noting its untidy state: empty coffee cups—the same as the one he'd been holding—wrinkled clothing draped over furniture, and a pile of miscellaneous clutter on the living room table.

"Did you forget something?" The chill of his tone cuts her inspection short. That blank expression from earlier abruptly gives way to furrowed brows and hard-line lips. He makes no attempt to conceal his indignation.

"No, I—," she croaks. There is no good way to begin this. Licking her lips and clearing her throat, she starts again.

"Edward, I am _so_ sorry." Her tearful brown eyes convey the sincerity of her apology, but it's not enough, nowhere near enough. And she knows it.

With a sardonic chuckle, he shakes his head before meeting her eyes again. "What are you _sorry_ for?" he demands brusquely. "Sorry for meeting me? For sleeping with me? Or for leaving me here to worry myself fucking crazy for the past seven days?"

This is not an Edward she has met before. His voice is gruff and abrasive, the coarse texture of gravel, and his eyes are as sharp as shards of shattered glass. She wants this, wants to hear him scream at her and to see him seethe with rage at her foolish behavior. This is what she deserves.

"What I did to you is unforgivable. Leaving you here to wake up alone. Not returning your calls or texts…" She pauses for several seconds and battles to maintain her waning composure. "It was all wrong, and I am more regretful than you'll ever know."

Immediately, his fingers are in his hair as he commences the same, anxious pacing she'd witnessed the night when he'd unveiled his past. "Jesus, Bella, do you have any idea… I've been wracking my brain wondering what the hell I did wrong! If I hurt you, if I made you uncomfortable with what I said, if—"

"No! I'm the one who fucked up, okay?!" She is yelling now, not at him, but at herself. His pacing ceases as soon as her high-pitched words ring in his ears. He shoves his hands in his pockets, narrows his eyes at her, and waits for whatever explanation she has to offer.

"My whole life, I have been warned against this," she explains, gesturing back and forth between them. Stone by stone, her fortress becomes dismantled, finally revealing the rawest, weakest parts of her. "I was terrified of what I was feeling for you—of what I _am _feeling for you," she refines. "I was stupid and confused. And I know that's a shitty excuse, but that's the truth of it."

Trying to close the gap between them, she approaches tentatively and reaches out to touch his arm. Before she can make contact, he flinches away and ambles toward the opposite wall. He is a cocktail of mixed emotions—of anger, sorrow, and love, with a shot of wounded pride. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tries to comprehend the reasoning behind her fear. He has always been so careful with her, never impatient or dishonest. He'd shown her everything, professed his love with his words and his body, and now… Now he feels like a fool for having allowed himself to tumble head-over-feet so quickly.

His silence causes her eyes to blur with water; she has cried more in the last eight hours than she has in the last eight months. Blinking back the moisture and swallowing hard, she works to stifle any emotion that might hinder her voice. She needs him to understand.

"Do you remember when you told me about all the traveling you did?" she begins, attempting to draw some sort of parallel. "About how you kept moving around to get away from everything that had happened?"

"Yes," he replies lowly.

"You told me you got tired of running. You said you were shutting everyone out, and you finally realized you couldn't do it anymore."

The wrinkle between his brows relays his confusion, but he is curious to see where this is going. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"That's exactly what _I _have been doing, Edward. How do you think I ended up in Port Angeles? I _ran _here to escape everything that was bothering me in Forks."

There are so many reasons for her nightly visits to this harbor town—using the bar and the change of scenery as a temporary reprieve from memories and Charlie and work…even the death of a friend. The suffocating consciousness of it all twists her stomach to the point of nausea.

"Whenever I'm afraid, that's what I do—what I've always done—and it's wrong. I don't have to be here, Edward. I had every opportunity to move back home after graduation. I had scholarship offers from every school in Mississippi and then some, but I declined every one of them after I came here. I shut out my only friends—the people I'd grown up with and known my entire life because I wanted to get away from it all."

Burying her head in her hands, she shamefully recalls the first three months after her move to Washington. Her friends had tried to stay in touch through emails and phone calls. Eventually, she'd stopped answering them altogether—deleted their messages, ignored their calls—because pretending like that part of her life had never existed was easier than acknowledging the truth.

"I can't even bring myself to visit my own mother's grave. Even if I had the means right now, I wouldn't be able do it." She is ashamed of lacking the courage to lay flowers upon Renee's resting place, of being too cowardly to pay her respects to the woman who had raised her and loved her unconditionally.

"I've been avoiding life for the better part of a year now, and then _you _come along and…" She sighs, lifting her arms slightly before dropping them at her sides. "And I just can't do it anymore."

He stares fixedly at her, working the muscles in his jaw as he tries to absorb her explanation. He understands, more than she knows; however, something about her words strikes him painfully.

"So that's what I am to you? That's what all this is about? I'm just some temporary fix for your problems right now." Hurt darkens his green eyes as the gleam of emerald that usually brightens them fades to black.

"At first, yes," she answers honestly. "Whenever I heard you sing, it brought me relief. It still does, but you are so much more to me now than that. More than I ever could've wished for."

"How can I trust you? How do I know you won't get scared again and take off? I can't handle that again. There has been too much shit that's happened for me to be able to tolerate that kind of pain. You ripped my heart out, Bella."

"Never again, Edward. I swear. Please," she begs with torrents of fresh tears raining down her cheeks. "You told me not to be afraid. I'm not completely fixed, but I am trying. And I swear to God, with everything in me—even though it's broken and probably no good—I'll give you all I have to offer."

The unyielding steel in jaw and the lingering doubt in his eyes offer her no glimmer hope. The space between them seems like an infinite expanse—a burned bridge with no means of repair. The heavy silence becomes unbearable. Despite his proximity, she has never felt more alone than she does right now. Before she begins to choke on the devastation knotting in her throat, he moves. Slowly—too slowly—he moves, approaching her with intentions she cannot discern. When he is at last close enough to touch her, he cradles her tear-stained face in his hands and gazes into her wide eyes for several moments before speaking.

"Then, say it," he commands in the deep velvet voice she's missed for days. "Say it, Bella."

"I love you, Edward," she declares, the conviction in her tone leaving no room for doubt. "I love you, and I'm not going anywhere unless you push me out that door."

In that instance, he crushes his mouth to hers with a blue-flamed passion that neither has felt before. There is a sense of urgency in his lips, the way they crash into hers with an almost-painful desperation. Need. So much need. His fingers tangle in her hair, and in turn, she laces hers behind his neck, forcing them into a deeper kiss. When he pulls away for breath, she immediately laments the loss of contact, never wanting to be separated from him again. He stops his hands from traveling, cautious about starting something he won't be permitted to finish.

With his nose pressed into her cheek, he pleads in a near-whisper, "Can we try again?"

"God, yes," she answers breathlessly.

And with that, she is against the wall, pinned firmly to the exposed brick and wincing at the discomfort it causes. The feeling of his hard body flush with hers sends a heated surge of energy through her reawakened veins.

"Sorry," he apologizes, forgetting to be gentle in the fervor of the moment.

She smiles against his mouth. "Don't be."

At once, his hands grip the back of her thighs and lift her so that she can coil her legs around him. He stumbles haphazardly trying to maintain his balance while keeping his mouth meshed with hers. The absurdity of it elicits laughter from both of them, causing further complication in his attempt to carry her to the bed. Impatient, he settles her on the kitchen counter instead, and she untwines her legs from his waist, letting them dangle over the edge. She giggles as he hastily fumbles to remove her shoes, cursing the way they are doubled knotted. The next item to go is her jeans, which he tugs off hastily and throws to the floor. Her skin prickles with chill bumps at the feel of the cool granite beneath her, but she recovers promptly when his hands make contact with her skin once more. She pulls off her sweater, tossing it in the same direction as her pants, and waits for him to undress as well. But he doesn't.

Instead, he steps between her parted legs and meets her with a crooked grin and a kiss. With his hands placed on either side of her waist, he beckons her to slide closer to the edge. She does so and is rewarded with the warmth of his palm against her center. At a teasing pace, he strokes the sensitive area that lay beneath nothing more than a thin strip of blue cotton. As if jolted by his touch, she shudders and clenches her lids tightly.

He stops abruptly, mistaking her reaction for something other than pleasure. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," she breathes in his ear, gripping his shoulder and encouraging him to continue.

Another grin graces his lips as he proceeds with his plan. He wants so badly to do this right, to give her what she had given him the time before. Pushing aside the fabric, he finds the swollen bud that begs his attention and begins tracing it with gentle circles. She whimpers in response because it is both too much and not enough.

"More," she implores, wrapping her arms tighter around him and digging her nails into his shirt.

Compliant, he ventures further, carefully sinking in one…then, two…fingers. His thumb massages the spot she likes best, while his fingers work in harmony with the motions. He studies her face, allowing the crease of her brow and the flush of her cheeks to guide his actions. So many times, she has observed those long, capable fingers strumming guitar strings and ghosting gracefully over ivory keys; now they are discovering her, bringing her to a place that no one else has taken her before. Craving more to satisfy the tender ache, she rocks into him, slow and steady at first, then with greater urgency. She closes her eyes and focuses on the sensations: the pressure of his thumb, the curling of his fingertips. Behind her lids, she sees the climb—an image of a steep slope and the tantalizing journey to the top—and she cries out when, at last, she reaches the summit. She opens her eyes again to find him wearing a smug smirk. It is an expression, not only of pride in his success, but one of awe after witnessing her come unraveled at his hand.

"Beautiful," he whispers, planting a kiss upon her forehead.

_Numbness be damned._

Again, they laugh as he gathers her in his arms and carries her across the room, setting her easily on the bed. Any remaining clothing is hastily shed, with him yanking off his shirt as she works to rid him of his jeans and underwear. Despite the afternoon light filtering through the window, there is no awkward-moment smile when all is uncovered.

After retrieving a condom from the nightstand drawer, he begins unwrapping the packet but stops when she grabs his wrist. She peers up at him, her brown eyes glinting and wide with the last gleam of innocence that remains.

"Let me," she pleads.

So eager for her touch, he willingly directs her novice hands until everything is in place. Together—kissing, tasting, and touching—they crawl atop the swirl of unmade linen. He hovers above her, moving until their bodies become perfectly aligned, and guides them together with care. Simultaneous gasps escape their mouths as they unite, both of them eagerly welcoming the sense of completion. For a moment, she tenses with nerves and anticipation, but he soothes her with the silk in his voice.

"Relax, Bella," he croons. "Breathe." And she does, allowing her body to adjust to his.

His fingertips trail a line from her hip to her knee, igniting a fire-ice burn in their wake. He hitches her leg around his waist to bind them closer together, and she begs him to move. Thinking of a better way, he rolls them over while maintaining their connection until she is sitting on top of him. A bashful grin sweeps across her lips as she becomes aware of having left the security of his weight. This position is foreign, but freeing. Timid about gaining this new control, her initial movements are unsteady and self-conscious, but he coaxes her forward. Warm, reassuring hands find the swell of her hips and begin guiding her motions.

"Move with me, Bella," he says, shifting his body beneath her and encouraging her to follow.

She continues more confidently, taking control until she captures a satisfying rhythm. As she increases the pace, she begins to soar, reveling in her discovery of the sweet combination of pressure and friction her body craves. The sight of her rocking and writhing above him threatens to send him over the edge too soon, but he refuses to go without her. Her moans of pleasure are met by his as they gradually near the end. She is the first to come undone, finally succumbing to a euphoric release, and he follows immediately thereafter. All of her warmth and softness meld into what is left of him when she collapses exhaustedly onto his chest. In their mutual descent they cling to one another as if they are completely alone in this upside-down world.

They spend most of an hour recovering in each other's arms. He traces lazy circles on her back while she absently twirls a strand of his hair. It is the low growl of his stomach—as well as the amused chuckles that come as a result—that finally disrupts the silence.

"I haven't had breakfast," he mumbles into her hair.

"Neither have I." She rolls over to glance at the clock on his nightstand. "It's almost three."

He yawns and stretches languidly. "I don't care, I want breakfast. I haven't eaten real food in days."

The statement sends a wave of guilt washing over her once again. When he sees the reemergence of regret in her sad eyes, he shakes his head.

"Don't," he says, smoothing her hair. "It's over, Love." A butterfly kiss lands briefly on her nose, and she smiles in response. He is less hesitant to forgive her than she is to forgive herself.

After rising from the bed, he finds his underwear and retrieves a pair of pajama pants from the dresser drawer. He stumbles around until he finds her clothing as well and tosses it to her. While he steps outside to smoke a cigarette, she dresses in the black shirt he'd removed earlier and proceeds to tidy the room of the disarray that had been caused, at least in part, by her actions. She picks up his dirty clothes that lay draped over the furniture and places them in the bathroom hamper. The old coffee cups and random litter are thrown into the garbage, and the space is improved. When he returns several minutes later and notices her cleaning, he scolds her—then thanks her—for her efforts, stating that he would've done it eventually. She takes a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island and watches him gather various ingredients from the cabinet and fridge.

"What are you making?"

"Pancakes," he replies with a wink.

He ducks under the counter and takes out a large bowl. She quietly observes his culinary process, noting how he purses his lips in the same focused expression he uses when mixing drinks at the bar; however, the difference here is that he is shirtless and displaying messier hair than usual. They entertain each other with mindless chatter while he prepares the meal—blending the batter, pouring it in the pan, and flipping the pancakes with enviable precision. He stacks her plate with two, as requested, and his with three, then smothers his own with an absurd amount of maple syrup the way he always does. For a long while they eat without saying much of anything, only trading locked glances and full-mouth grins.

"So, Thanksgiving is next week," he states between syrupy bites. "Are you doing anything special?"

She dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin and shakes her head. "No. Charlie and I will probably end up ordering a pizza and watching football. I've never spent Thanksgiving with him before, but I'm betting that's how it's gonna go."

"Holidays are kind of a big deal with my family. Always have been. Carlisle and Alice cook this huge meal, and everyone hangs out in the living room afterwards till one of us falls asleep." He smiles wistfully at the memories from the previous year; they had mourned those that could no longer be there, but had given thanks for those who still could be. "You and your dad are welcome to come."

"Really?" she asks with a beaming curve to her lips.

"Yeah. It would mean a lot to me if you were there, Bella."

She is doubtful that Charlie will attend but grateful for the invitation, nonetheless. The arrival of November and the impending holidays have sickened her with a sense of melancholy. This year will include no slice of Renee's homemade sweet potato pie, no thoughtful choosing of gifts for her mother, and no hugs on Christmas morning.

Edward reaches over and swipes a wayward tear from her cheek, understanding the cause for its falling. He knows that look—the one of sinking realization that everything has changed—and if she'll let him, he won't let her endure the pain alone. She wraps her appreciative arms around him and kisses the sweet, sticky smile off his face.

Before the sun sets on Port Angeles, their bodies collide for a second time. They spend the rest of the lazy Sunday afternoon—naked and lost in each other's embrace—making love and absolving one another of all mistakes and misunderstandings.

* * *

**A/N: **Second lemon better than the first? Do you forgive/understand Bella now? Hope so. Next chapter may be a bit fluffy. Until then, have a lovely week & happy reading! :-)


	26. Chapter 26: Gratitude

**A/N: **I had to climb over a small mountain of writer's block for this one; my apologies for the delay. I'd like to give a huge shout-out to another one of my RL friends who has decided to humor me & read my nonsense. Karen, my beloved coworker & the awesome woman who gave me my penname, this one is for you! Love you bunches ;-)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Gratitude**

The Cullen house is nearly five-thousand square feet of contemporary charm, a luxury lodge-style home surrounded by acres of rain-darkened evergreens and peaceful solitude. Bella's jaw unhinges slightly and remains so for several moments as she surveys the stunning structure through the windshield of the Volvo. It is one of the loveliest houses she has ever seen, and she can only imagine what more lies inside. She clutches a foil-covered dish in her lap and feels her stomach tighten with the anticipation of spending the holiday with a different family. Being with the Cullens in a social setting like the bar is one thing; joining them at their family dinner table for Thanksgiving is quite another.

Edward takes notice of her pensive trance as they roll to a stop in the driveway. The back of his hand ghosts across her cheekbone to gain her attention.

"Come on, Love," he whispers in her ear, trying to soothe the brown-eyed girl who owns his heart. "Don't be nervous. Everyone is excited that you're here."

She snaps back to the here-and-now and leans over the console to kiss him quickly. "Do you think they'll like the pie, or should I just leave it in the car?" The space between her brows crinkles with uncertainty, but before he can reassure her, she prattles out a response to her own question. "I think I'm gonna leave it in the car. I know it can't compare to anything Carlisle and Alice have cooked, and I probably screwed up the recipe royally, anyhow. But, dammit, I'll feel like I'm being rude by not bringing any—"

His fingers find her chin and halt her words immediately. "Bella," he says calmly. "My family is your family." A gentle kiss is placed atop her forehead before he flashes an impish smirk. "So just bring the damn pie and stop worrying."

The interior of the car rings with their mingled chuckles before they finally exit. As they reach the first porch step, the front door swings open to reveal Emmett's towering form. The animated grin he wears brings out the little-boy dimples of his cheeks.

"Bout time you guys got here!" he teases in a booming voice. "Bella, it's good to see you again." His bear paw lands heavily on her shoulder before pulling her into an embrace. She gasps at the unexpected gesture but welcomes it all the same. Next, he grabs Edward in a hug and their hands smack loudly against each other's backs before they pull away.

Shortly thereafter, a familiar mess of blonde hair and blue eyes wanders through the hallway to where they are standing. Jasper greets his friends with welcoming smiles, and soon the foyer is echoing with sounds of male banter. The inside of the cabin-style house is much like its owner—warm, comforting, inviting. The holiday aromas that waft through the air entice them to find the kitchen. Mouths water in response to the sweet and savory smells of comfort food as they enter the expansive room. The décor, of course, is immaculate with cherry cabinetry, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances. The kitchen area opens to a massive dining room in which a long table is draped in a festive tablecloth and set for six. Alice and Carlisle are busy adding finishing touches to various dishes and arranging them carefully like a buffet on the large center island. The group surveys the feast with wide eyes and eager appetites: turkey and dressing with cranberry sauce, as well as an array of other mouthwatering side dishes.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" Alice and her father chime in unison when they see the new arrivals. Arms lock to form hugs all around. Alice's first embrace is for Bella, the second for Edward.

"Thank y'all for having me," Bella says sincerely. "My dad couldn't make it, but he sends his best." Although she had promptly relayed Edward's invitation to her father, he had respectfully declined. She is not disappointed; Charlie's presence here tonight surely would have been awkward for everyone.

Carlisle is the next to speak. He curls his arm around her shoulders with the same affection he would show his own daughter. "We are thrilled to have you joining us, Bella. I'm sorry Charlie could not be here."

"That's alright," Alice pipes in. "I'll make a few plates for you take home with you."

"Thanks." Bella smiles at both of them. All is mended between her and Alice, and she is beginning to feel very much like a part of their family, especially today. There is a certain quality about them that makes one feel as if he or she has known them for a lifetime, and she offers a silent prayer of thanks to have found them now.

"What's this?" Alice asks, gesturing to the object in Bella's hands.

"Sweet potato pie. It's, uh…" She swallows hard. "It's my mom's recipe. I've never made it before, so it's probably not any good." Bella bites her lips sheepishly. She had cooked a practice pie the night before, and although it had tasted decent enough then, she knew it could never compare to the original. Her eyes shift down to the foil-covered dish in her hands, her melancholy gaze lingering momentarily on the shiny, distorted reflection staring back at her.

"Oh, I've never tried sweet potato before. Only pumpkin," Alice smiles genuinely and takes the pie from Bella's grip to set it carefully on the counter. "I can't wait to try it."

"Neither can I." Edward's velvet voice caresses her skin before his lips press gently to her temple. The tender gesture elicits the tingling sensation she loves so much, and she relaxes immediately, knowing that all her trepidation about the holidays has been unnecessary. She will get through this, and she won't have to do it alone.

A plea from Emmett and his growling belly gets things going. The guest is the first in line, with the rest of the family following behind her. The merry sounds of clanging silverware and friendly chatter reverberate from the high, wood-beamed ceiling to the stone floor.

And so begins one of the best Thanksgivings that Bella Swan and Edward Masen have ever celebrated…

After everyone is seated with their piled-high plates of food and grace is finally said, the dining room fills with laughter and recounts of favorite memories. Emmett regales them with tales of his life in LA, while Jasper and Edward interject with playful remarks. The evening is a cheerful blend of food and drink and conversation—the way any holiday should be—and although it is not exactly home for Bella, it is close enough.

When it comes time for dessert, she bites her lip and crosses her fingers. She helps herself to a slice of Renee's sweet potato pie and the rest of them do the same. After first bites are taken, each of them compliments her efforts with satisfied nods and "mmm" noises.

"Bella, this pie is second only to my grandmother's back home," Jasper says with a mouth full. She grins in reply to his sweetness, taking his second slice as a sign of the sincerity of his words.

Even though Edward finds sweet potatoes to be nothing short of unappetizing, he cuts two small slices and consumes both with a bright smile. He whispers how proud her mom would be of her culinary accomplishment, and the tearful gleam of happiness that appears in her eyes makes the task of eating something he hates worth every second of displeasure.

Once all the dirtied dishware is cleared from the table, everyone except Bella and Carlisle retire to the overstuffed leather couches in the living room. Despite his protests, she insists on helping him load the dishwasher and tidy up the kitchen. It is the least she can do to show her appreciation for having been rescued from a day of loneliness and misery. Conversation flows easily between them, for Carlisle has such a calming presence about him—a trait she assumes must be genetic and one that Edward undoubtedly has inherited.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Carlisle poses while placing a pan of leftover casserole in the refrigerator.

"Not at all."

"What are your plans for the future? You're an intelligent young lady. Have you thought about college?"

Bella stops suddenly and leans back against the counter to consider his question—a question she has been avoiding as if just thinking about it could be toxic. Her future will not include Cal's greasy diner, of that she is certain, and she has no intention of returning to the Delta to live alone. She and Charlie's relationship may not be the greatest, but at least it is _something_. And, of course, Edward is a significant factor in her life now. Perhaps, the state of Washington can be her new home…

"Yes, I have thought about it. I want a degree and real career, but I'm afraid I've sabotaged my opportunities." She sighs, regretfully recalling the decisions she had made after graduation. Even now she is uncertain whether or not she is deserving of the chance to move forward, to strive for success and happiness after all that has happened. Is it possible at all? "I have savings from work and what's left of my mother's insurance, but that isn't enough right now. Maybe one day, though…"

"I don't mean to pry," he says carefully, "but I don't think you should deny yourself a successful future. I understand how tragedy can flip your world upside-down, but you shouldn't give up. I would be more than happy to help."

"Thank you, Carlisle, but I can't ask you to do that." She shakes her head emphatically, grateful for the offer but unwilling to accept such unmerited kindness.

"You're not asking, Bella. I am offering. I have friends at UW and State. If you submit your application and exam scores, I would be glad to contact someone in the financial aid department. I wouldn't be surprised if you were able to get a full scholarship and federal funding. You are not without options."

Her brows furrow slightly as she takes his words into consideration. _Options. Future. _He studies her face carefully—the face of the young woman who has rekindled the spark of life in his only nephew—and watches as she deliberates his proposal. Before she can respond, he touches her arm lightly and gives her a warm smile.

"Think it over, and let me know what you decide."

She ducks her head in an attempt to conceal the emotion welling up in her eyes. Lately, she has experienced more feelings than she knows how to deal with, but one sentiment is particularly overwhelming today. Gratitude.

"Thank you."

* * *

When she returns home later that evening, Bella finds her father in the worn recliner with his thumb clicking away at the buttons on the TV remote. She struggles to balance the three large, paper plates of leftovers that Alice had prepared, while trying to close the door with her hip. Charlie leaves his seat to lend his assistance.

"Alice sent plenty of food for you," she tells him as she hands over two of the plates.

Charlie clears his throat and raises his brows in surprise. "Well, that was very thoughtful of her."

She grins as she follows him into the kitchen. "That's Alice."

Once settled at the table, he rolls up the long sleeves of his flannel shirt and commences to removing the plastic wrap from the plates. She watches the contented expression that overtakes his face as he assesses the delicious meal before him. Charlie cannot remember the last time he ate real, home-cooked food for the holidays.

Bella opens the fridge to retrieve a diet soda for herself and glances back to where her father has already started devouring the lukewarm turkey and dressing.

"Do you want something to drink?" she offers. Before he can answer, she begins searching for a can of beer but finds no six-pack anywhere on the top shelf.

Charlie swivels in his chair, still holding a fork in his right hand and chewing loudly. He swallows. "A glass of water is fine."

* * *

"Is it too early for me to give you your Christmas present?" Edward mutters the question into the top of her hair as she snuggles against him on the sofa.

She halts her absent fumbling of his shirt hem to peer up at him. "It's only the first week of December. I haven't even gotten yours yet." A sudden wave of panic flips her stomach. She has it picked out online—a classic blues collection of all the greatest Southern artists to add to his music shelf—but she has yet to place the order.

In his usual nervous manner, he rakes through the coppery flames of his hair and sighs. "It's something that will require some preparation," he explains cautiously. "And you may not even want it at all. Actually, I hope you don't get too upset or feel that you have to accept it."

She shifts her position so that her eyes meet his, and her fingertips find the now clean-shaven line of his jaw. She traces a trail from below his ear to his chin and wonders at the cause of the sudden tension there. "I won't be upset," she assures him with confidence. "I'll love anything you give me."

He exhales a loud gust of air and rises from the seat. She watches curiously as he treks across the room to his dresser. After rifling through some other items, he pulls an envelope from the top drawer and taps it against his palm as if debating on whether or not to reveal the gift. It is with the best intentions, the most thoughtful concern, but he fears she may not see it that way. Growing impatient, she leaves the sofa and meets him halfway, taking the envelope from his hesitant hands. When she finally opens it to expose the contents, her initial expression is one of confusion.

_A voucher for two plane tickets from Sea-Tac Airport to Memphis International._

"I thought you might want to visit your mother for Christmas," he explains. "They're good for a while, so you have plenty of time to decide."

In that instant, the tears begin to spill, trickling down one-by-one as she runs her thumb over the smooth print. How many times has she thought about actually seeing Renee's grave? About placing her favorite flowers on the ground beside her and saying a final goodbye like she had to Mrs. Lucas? It is something she needs and wants to do, and now she has no excuse not to.

He brushes away the moisture raining down her cheeks and awaits a verbal response. She parts her lips to speak but stumbles over the thick emotion knotting in her throat.

"Edward, I… This is too much. I don't know what to say." But the beaming curve of her lips tells him all he needs to know.

"I figured you wouldn't want to go alone, so I purchased an extra ticket for Charlie." He pauses for a second to gauge her reaction. "Or me. It's your choice. Whatever you feel you need to do."

"You," she replies quickly, wrapping her arms around him and burying her tear-soaked face in his chest. "Please."

* * *

**A/N: **Fluffy, I know, but how can you not adore SweetTaterward? Yeah, I'm fairly certain that is an original –ward. Pack your bags cuz I'm flying y'all down here to visit me for the next chapter or two. We're winding down. FYI: They're flying into Memphis b/c that's the closest international airport to Bella's tiny hometown, and I hate Jackson so...there that is. Have a great week, ladies! :o)

Please check out the prologue to my new fic "We All Fall Down" on my profile. It's my new passion, and I'm very excited about it!


	27. Chapter 27: Mississippi Rain

**A/N: **To my reviewers, story alerters, Twitter followers, etc.: I love y'all dearly! Everyone has been so encouraging with their kind words & helpful suggestions. I appreciate every one of you lovely readers. As for E & B, they're visiting me down here this week. Join us, won't you? By the way, Hooker, Hendrix, & SRV were on repeat in the background as I wrote this one; you'll see why. ;-)

**Before you continue, I feel the need to give fair warning that the imagery in this chapter may be disturbing to some readers. And of course, this story is rated M for a reason.

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**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Mississippi Rain**

Their flight lands safely on a Thursday afternoon, exactly three weeks after Thanksgiving. Cal had grumbled about giving Bella the rest of the week off, but after she'd explained the circumstances, the softer part of his heart gave in. The rain falls in a steady drizzle from the time they depart from the plane at Memphis International until the moment they cross the Magnolia State line, and then some. Edward comments on the irony of the weather, considering it had been sunny when they left Forks that morning and a blue-sky beautiful at Sea-Tac Airport before they boarded the plane.

Bella drives the rental car—a luxury vehicle with more buttons than she knows what to do with—to their destination seventy miles south of the Tennessee border. She gazes nostalgically at the road signs along the interstate; these are names she remembers well and the bridges she has crossed countless times before.

They arrive at their destination early that evening, a quaint bed-and-breakfast twenty minutes from the cemetery where her mother is buried. Edward had booked their accommodations a week ago upon learning of the lack of five-star hotels in the area. She knows the small town so well, its historic square with the old courthouse, the post office, and the row of shops and family-run restaurants. She and Renee had been here many times before. It is decorated for the holiday season with glowing, pearl-like strings of lights wound around leafless branches and Christmas scenes on display in the store windows. Red ribbons and wreaths and nativity scenes adorn the houses and lawns as well. Everything is so familiar and comforting, like one's favorite song.

The bed-and-breakfast is cozy and exudes the Southern charm she has missed for months. The proprietors—an older couple by the name of Mr. and Mrs. Royce King—reside in a large Victorian within walking distance of the square. Mrs. King meets them at the front door with key in hand to let them inside and provides them with a brief tour. The lady has snow white hair and glasses that sit perched on the tip of her nose. Although her face is not one that Bella knows, she has the sweet grandmotherly quality of most women her age.

Being the conservative, God-fearing woman she is, Mrs. King peeks curiously over her glasses at the ringless, fourth fingers on the young couple's left hands and makes a mental judgment about kids today. However, as she observes their interactions more attentively—the tender gestures shared between them, the honesty of their young love—she smiles, remembering the romance of her own youth that fortunately has endured for over forty years.

"Where y'all from?" the lady inquires in a slow, friendly lilt that sounds like home.

Bella swallows hard, hoping to avoid too many personal queries. "Washington," she answers quickly. "We're on our way to visit family."

"Oh, my, y'all sure did come a mighty long way!" she gasps. "What's the name of your kin, honey? Perhaps I know them."

Sensing her tension, Edward places his hand on the small of Bella's back and rubs gently. She offers the woman a meek smile and replies, "Swan." Bella holds her breath and waits for the condolences and questions if Mrs. King recognizes the name from the neighboring town. Since Charlie is no Mississippi native, she and her mother had been the only Swans she knew of in the area. She prays Renee had been no acquaintance of the Kings.

Luckily, her prayers are answered. The old woman's crinkled lips purse while she thinks for a moment, but she shakes her head. "Nah, honey, I don't believe I know that name."

As Mrs. King continues to chatter about the weather and the upcoming holidays, she guides them through the atrium to the rest of the house. Its papered walls, hardwood floors, tin ceilings, and antique furnishings hold more stories than would take a lifetime to tell. The courtyard in the back is breathtaking as well, despite the lack of blooming flowers and green plants that would color the area if it were summer. Everything is perfect, beautiful, and charming. Bella laments that their reason for being there is not a more pleasant one.

This is a mission, her endeavor for truth and closure.

"Well, it's wonderful to have you," Mrs. King chimes merrily as she prepares to leave. "I hope you enjoy your time with us. Just holler if you need anything. Royce and I are across the street."

"Thank you," Edward says, shaking her hand politely. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Once they are finally alone, Bella breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Edward with a watery smile. "I don't deserve this," she tells him.

Softly, his fingers graze her cheek as his lips find her forehead. "Yes, you do," he whispers into her skin, willing her to believe. But she doesn't.

He pulls back to study her face, discovering tired eyes brimming with anxiety. "Do you feel up to going out for dinner, or do you want to stay in?"

After deliberating for a moment, she grins. Hard reality does not come till morning. "Let's go out. I want to take you somewhere."

* * *

The rhythm of the Delta blues floats in the smoky air as they sit in the back of a downtown restaurant. The floors vibrate with the steady beats of heavy bass and brass. In the corner, the raspy voice of a weathered, ebony-skinned man sings of hard times, broken hearts, and woe. The two men behind him play their instruments, seemingly effortlessly, as if the music flows naturally through their blood. The tunes Edward hears through the speakers in his apartment pale in comparison to the live music pulsing around him tonight.

"What do you think?" Bella yells over the background noise.

The corner of his mouth turns upward in a crooked curve. "I think these guys need to play at Cullen's at least twice a week."

With her chin resting in her palm, she returns his grin and asks, "Like it?"

He nods. "Love it."

Bella watches him with rapt interest as Edward bobs his head slightly, holding his mouth just so and occasionally licking his lips. His fingers tap against the air in synchrony with the notes. He orders a beer for himself, and the waitress makes no inquiry regarding Bella's age when she does the same. They sip their ice-cold beverages contentedly, absorbing the music and observing the crowd. The waitress returns shortly to take their orders; Edward opts for the steak, but Bella chooses something a little less ordinary. While they wait for their food, he lights a cigarette to go with his beer. He leans across the table, taking long drags and carefully blowing the smoke through the corner of his mouth. He wants to ask her about tomorrow, but he hesitates. She will tell him when she is ready to face that part of the trip. Right now, he knows she needs this place—the hazy atmosphere, the people, and the noise—to steal her mind away from the dread of what's to come. Instead of filling the space between them with too many words of his own, he lets her do most of the talking.

"I'm considering college next year," she tells him.

His face brightens with optimism. "I think you should." Then, sensing her self-doubt, he adds, "You can do anything, Bella."

"Carlisle offered to help. I won't take his money, but I'll gladly accept any assistance he can give me as far as admissions and scholarships go." She stares thoughtfully at the bottle in her hand and absently begins peeling the label.

"What are you thinking?"

She rakes her teeth across her bottom lip before replying. "I'm thinking about Seattle." Concerned about the future of their relationship, she stares back at him and nervously awaits his response.

"I'll go wherever you go," he says confidently. "If that's what you want."

Her eyes alight with hope. "Yeah," she nods, "that's what I want."

With that subject settled, they finish their beers and continue to engage in casual conversation until the waitress returns with a tray of food balanced on her palm.

Edward peers across the table at the peculiar dish that is placed in front of Bella. "So, what's that you ordered?"

"Shrimp and grits." She takes a forkful and savors the flavor of one of her favorite dishes. And it tastes _so_ damn good.

He quirks his thick brow and shakes his head incredulously at the strange combination. "Okay," he remarks before cutting into his steak.

She can't help but roll her eyes and snicker. _Boy doesn't know good food when he sees it._

* * *

For the second time that day, the rain begins to fall. It spills from the dark sky as they make their way back to the bed-and-breakfast. After having spent the last couple of hours immersed in the local culture, they are happy to return to the homey comfort of their lodging. A long day of travel and getting settled has exhausted them thoroughly. With yawns and sleep-heavy eyes, they change into their pajamas and crawl under the plush covers of the king-size bed. In little time, he begins to drift, nearly succumbing to fatigue almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Sleep does not come so easily for Bella, however. She shifts against him, trying to find peace, but the anxiety of tomorrow hinders her attempt to capture rest. The small restless body wrapped in his arms keeps him awake, and he waits patiently for her breathing to regulate, for her body to still. But it never does.

"What's the matter?" he asks her, looking down at her tensed face.

"Edward, could you…"

But he already knows her question, understands her need, before she finishes making her request. He sings. Softly. Soothingly.

She curls closer to him, nestling her head on his chest and inhaling the scent of cologne and smoke that lingers on his shirt. As she breathes him in, she listens to the steady thrum of his heart against her ear. Little by little, her body relaxes and her mind begins to settle. The tingles come in a rush over her skin at first before gradually fading into the numbness she craves.

Finally, she feels nothing and drifts along with him.

For several minutes more, he continues to hum—his voice becoming quieter as his own body begins to fall again—and eventually, the soft pattering of the rain lulls both of them into a silent state of unconsciousness.

* * *

_"Isabella, slow down," a firm voice commands from the passenger seat._

_Like any other petulant teenager, she rolls her eyes. "Well, if I drove like you, it'd be midnight before we got there."_

_Her mother bends forward to sift through her purse, still grumbling about the stubbornness of her daughter. She can't find the lipstick she wants; she can't see what's coming next._

_"I think you should go with a blue dress for prom," her mother suggests. "Blue looks so good on you, baby." She continues to dig through the cluttered contents of her bag for the small tube._

_"Hey, did I put my phone in there?" Bella reaches her right hand toward the floorboard, but Renee's purse is out of reach. _

_"I don't think so. I'll look. You watch the road."_

_But the warning comes too late. The white Camry has already drifted into the other lane—the lane where a gravel truck is barreling down the road with the horn blaring. _

_"Bella!" It is the last sound Renee Swan will ever make._

_Bella overcorrects, reflexively jerking the wheel in the opposite direction. In a blur of white and green and black, the car rolls down the embankment into the oaks and pines that line that stretch of highway. Metal twists and glass shatters. Blood spills and bone crushes. The Camry flips one last time before it finally slams like a boulder into the trees, landing upside down, wheels still spinning and radio playing._

_So much lost, so much changed—forever—only in a matter of seconds._

_Disoriented, Bella looks to her right and nearly vomits at the sight of the mangled form beside her—her mother, neck broken and eyes drained of life. _

Christ, what have I done? God, please…

_Bella's left sleeve is soaked in the same crimson liquid that gushes from the gash on her forehead; however, something is different this time. She had felt excruciating pain that day, had been overwhelmed by the throbbing sensation in her limbs. Now, it is not so. She feels absolutely nothing._

_Numb. Paralyzed. Dead._

_Everything is distorted, and she has no sense of time or space, no proprioception whatsoever. She cannot tell if she is dead or dying, if this is real or a nightmare. And when she screams, no sound leaves her swollen lips. _

* * *

Edward wakes abruptly to the muffled, agonizing sounds of anguish beside him. Somewhere in the night, she had moved from the safety of his arms, and now she is lying on her side shaking and writhing. Her eyes move rapidly beneath her lids, and her chest heaves with erratic breaths. Terrified, he takes her face in his hand, feeling the hot tears on her cheek as he coaxes her out of the hellish horrors she is reliving.

"Bella?" He nudges her shoulder gently at first, then with greater force. "Bella, baby, wake up."

Brown eyes fly open at the sweet sound of her name echoing from a familiar voice. She gasps frantically for oxygen as if she has never breathed before. Her hair is matted to her forehead with sweat, her skin flushed with heat. A pair of worried green eyes stares back at her as a soft hand strokes her cheek.

"It's okay, Love. It was just a dream," he croons reassuringly. His heart clenches at the sight of her so unhinged and frightened. He knows that look—the look of being haunted by images of the dead—and it pains him to see her beautiful countenance tear-stained and contorted in such distress.

Desperately seeking comfort and connection, she reaches out, latches onto him, and pulls him into a kiss. His mouth meets hers with equal fervor, but he can barely keep up with the ardent force of her lips. She needs to touch and be touched. Needs to _feel_. For once, she is sick of being numb, of shoving everyone and everything away, of fleeing instead of fighting. The pain is real. The memories are real. Their love is real.

In the darkness, no more words are spoken; there is only the noise of their mingled breaths and moans. Beneath the sheets, she grabbles with the waistband of his boxers and tugs at them until his hands take over. His sleepy confusion suddenly transforms into blue-flamed arousal. Before he can completely remove the obscuring fabric, she has already peeled out of her pajama pants and underwear. They neglect their shirts, for there is no time to remove more than what is necessary.

She wants him. Needs him. Now.

She reaches down and grips him firmly, silently pleading for him to take her. Never before has her body ached with a yearning so consuming as this, and when she begins to fear that the hollow space within her is too much to bear, he fills her completely. Tangled and hasty, their bodies intertwine beneath the sheets. She curls her leg around him and pulls him closer. She leads them, dictating the urgent, unsteady pace, and he follows willingly. Her fingers claw into the fabric of shirt as she clings desperately to the man she loves. She feels him inside, moving through her. His smooth hands glide swiftly down her body, clutching and kneading the bare flesh of her hips. Her greedy rhythm becomes more purposeful—firmer and faster—as her body seeks a means to an end. And finally, the pulsing, tender ache of longing reaches its crest and slowly ebbs into exhaustion.

Their need sated, he releases a groan into her neck, and she whimpers in his ear. Joined together, they lie breathless and still, neither one knowing exactly what to say. Instead of tainting the midnight air with words, they decide to wait and let the light of morning break the silence.

* * *

**A/N: **The B & B mentioned here is based on a real place, and it's all lovely and stereotypical South. Cheesy, I know, but it beats the hell out of a Holiday Inn. As far as I can tell, there are 1-2 more chapters left and an epilogue. I can't believe it!

So, tell me: was the middle-of-the-night sexin' as good for you as it was for me? I'm such a perv. :P


	28. Chapter 28: Confessions & Concrete

**A/N: **I sincerely apologize for the delay in updating. I have started a new fic, and I got sidetracked with it and schoolwork. I almost feel lame for pimping my own story, but this new one is near & dear to my heart. It's called We All Fall Down, and I will be updating it on a regular basis after OR&N is complete. If you're willing to give another one of my stories a try, I'd be honored to have you along for the ride. It will be nothing like this one, I assure you. Please check it out on my profile.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Confessions & Concrete**

She stirs in the sheets, tossing and stretching until at last she becomes fully alert. There is confusion at first. Her sleep-muddled mind cannot instantly distinguish dream from reality. The space beside her is empty. When she notices her t-shirt present but her underwear gone, she remembers what happened. She is bare from the waist down and blushes at the fact. The scene replays. Sometime in the night they had made love—hasty, impulsive, and passionate. She had never wanted anything or anyone more, but the nightmare that spurred their sudden lovemaking twists her stomach.

Had she spoken in her sleep? Could he read the truth on her face?

Throwing back the covers, she finds her underwear and slides into them. She sits on the edge of the bed for a long while contemplating her next move, her next words to the man she loves—the man she is certain cannot love a horrible person like her. Her throat ties in a knot, but she swallows hard to suppress the buildup of emotion. She hangs her head and massages her temples to ease the tension. Her head aches. Her body aches. _Everything_ aches. She is still exhausted almost as if she hadn't slept at all.

_You can't sit on this bed forever. You have to get up._

Sounds of movement emanate from another room. She pushes herself off the bed and follows the noise of his footsteps to the parlor. When she sees him showered, dressed, and clean-shaven, she becomes hyperaware of her disheveled, unsightly appearance. He always lets her sleep late, always gets ready and out of her way before she wakes. And he always looks so damn good when she first sees him in the morning.

"Hey," he says, offering a weak smile.

He sits on the antique sofa with crimson upholstery and rests his elbows on his knees. Upon second glance she can see the bruise-colored evidence of sleep deprivation under his eyes. She knows who caused that. She hangs her head in shame. He licks his lips and waits for her to speak, expects her to address their midnight tangle, but she doesn't.

"Look, Bella, last night—"

"I'm sorry," she cuts in. She rubs her puffy eyes and stares at the floor. "I don't know what the hell I…I'm sorry."

One corner of his mouth angles upward in a crooked smirk. "Don't apologize. It's not like I didn't enjoy it." The streak of light that diffuses through the window reveals what he hopes is a smile on her lips, but he can't be sure with the way she is ducking her head, avoiding his eyes.

"I, um..." he pauses, clears his throat. "I didn't use a condom."

She meets his gaze this time and shakes her head to reassure him. Renee may have misled her about some things but not about this. "Don't worry. I went to the health department last month, and I've started you know…" She really did miss her mother that day.

He exhales loudly and nods. He rubs the back of his neck as he thinks about how amazing it was to feel her, truly feel her, without a barrier. There was so much hunger in her eyes, in her mouth, in her touch last night. Never had he loved or been loved like that. But there had been another feeling present in the darkness besides lust and love and unbridled desire. There had been pain.

"Bella?"

He wants to talk. He knows something is not right—knows by the woeful, agonizing sounds she'd made in her sleep, knows by the way she keeps crossing and uncrossing her arms now. He knows something, but he doesn't know everything. And she really, really doesn't want him to.

She uncrosses her arms again and gestures toward the bathroom. "I need to get cleaned up."

"Then will you talk to me?" His gentle face is pleading, and she agrees with a nod of her head.

When she enters the bathroom, cold tile shocks her bare feet and a sliver of sunlight peeking through a high window pierces her sensitive eyes. It takes a moment for the water to heat up, and when it does, she steps under the spray quickly to warm and rinse her chilled skin. She considers many things as she soaps her body and scrubs her hair. Her mind reels with the details that she has refused to divulge to anyone, save for Charlie and the officers who responded to the horrific scene that day. No matter what words are used to explain it, it does not change the fact that she alone is responsible for what happened.

She thinks of Edward and how his losses are the result of someone else's cruelty and evil, someone else's terrible decision. The death of one family member cannot compare to the death of an entire family—mother, father, and sister. In respect to numbers, Bella's tragedy pales in comparison to his; however, and this is the variable that sticks her in the gut like a knife, at least Edwardis not at fault for those deaths. Even though he'd been forced to pull the trigger to protect his own life, he is in no way to blame for his tragic circumstances. Bella _is_ to blame for hers. She knows it. Charlie and the small town she grew up in know it. Worst of all, Renee knew it before all signs of vitality drained from her dark brown eyes. She knew who was responsible.

Bella told Charlie that this—her distant behavior, her anger toward him and herself and the rest of the world—is more than grief. It is worse than grief. It is _guilt_, and guilt is quite possibly the most debilitating feeling of them all. She leans heavily against the wall of the shower to prevent her collapse under the nearly unbearable weight of truth.

_What will he think of me now? How can he look at me the same way after he learns what I did?_

It is time to come clean.

She rinses the last of the suds from her body and shuts off the faucet before stepping out. She towels off, dresses for the day, and leaves her wet hair to dry naturally. She finds him in the kitchen hovering over the counter. He sees her approaching, freshly cleaned but still worn and weary as if the hot water had done little to rejuvenate her. He grins.

"Breakfast?" he asks, pointing to a complimentary basket of fruit and pastries that Mrs. King delivered while Bella was in the shower.

She shakes her head for slightly longer than necessary to indicate "no." Her pace from the doorway to the kitchen is mechanical, reluctant. Finally, she stops near the counter and stands right in front of him, peering up with lachrymose eyes. Whatever words she has waiting on her lips will not be good. He senses it.

"What's wrong, Love?" He sinks his long fingers in her damp locks and cradles her head. He waits for her to speak, but she doesn't. She just closes her lids, letting new tears spill down.

"You can tell me anything," he assures her. "Don't you know that by now?"

He has revealed everything to her, all of his family's secrets and all of the darkness that followed. He thought he knew everything that happened to her in March, but now he realizes there is more.

"I lied," she says in a near-whisper.

She told him about the accident, about how she and Renee were going to Memphis to buy a dress for prom; but she had left out the most important part: who was behind the wheel that day. It is a lie by omission. There is no love without honesty, and he deserves to know the truth.

His brows knit together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I killed her, Edward," she confesses. Her voice cracks like glass. "It's my fault, all my fucking fault."

Then the trickling tears become full sobs and her legs buckle. Reacting instantly, his arms reach to steady her but she is dead weight. She goes limp and lets herself slide through his grasp and crumple to the floor. She leans back against the cabinet and cries convulsively. There has been only one other time in Edward's life when he has felt this helpless. He joins her on the floor, crouches in front of her and takes her red face in his hands.

"Bella, _what_ are you talking about?" he asks again.

"My mom," she chokes out. She inhales sharply before more of her confession tumbles in a succession of fragmented sentences from her quivering mouth. "It was _me_. _I _was the one driving. And I was so fucking stupid, and I wasn't paying attention. There was a truck, and I swerved but it was too much…" A violent cough stops her words as she tries to talk too hastily through her tears.

"Jesus, Edward, you should have seen her! I watched her die. And I did it. It was all _me_!" She begins mumbling incoherently something that sounds like a plea for mercy, a prayer for forgiveness. "Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please, God. I'm sorry."

"Bella, Bella, breathe." He strokes her cheek and tells her everything will be okay. Tells her he loves her, repeats it again and again while kissing her weeping eyes.

"How can you love me? How can Charlie? After what I did, after I ki—"

Gripping her shoulders, he shakes her gently and wills her to listen. "Bella, listen to me," he says in a firm tone. "It was an accident. An _accident_.It could have happened to anybody."

"But it happened to _me_!" she screams hoarsely. And then the apologetic prayers start again. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry. God, please, I'm so sorry."

"Baby, look at me." He grabs her face and forces her to look at him, to see what he sees. She focuses on his eyes, on the earnestness and affection in depths of green and gold. "Do you honestly think your mother would want you to fall apart like this? To let this ruin you?"

She doesn't respond. These are questions she has never considered before. But she knows the answers. _No._

"She loved you. She wouldn't want you to let this destroy you." He stops for a moment and brushes away the tangled, still-damp strands of hair sticking to her wet cheeks. "You can't do this to yourself, Bella. I know. I've been blaming myself for things I can't change for years. I can't do it anymore, and neither can you."

Closing her eyes and swallowing hard, she nods. There is truth in his words, a truth that she so desperately wants to believe in. She leans forward, circling her arms around his neck, and pulls him to her. She begins to cry again as she buries her head in shoulder. Her tears soak his shirt, but he doesn't care.

"Shhh," he says over and over again.

His embrace grows firmer as the sobs send tremors through her slender body. They hold each other so tightly it hurts, but it would hurt even more to pull away. An hour passes as they sit locked arm-in-arm on the kitchen floor like two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. Together, they breathe, cry, and pray—pray for the strength to accept the things they cannot change.

* * *

The December sun is falling quickly from the afternoon sky, casting the grassy field of stones in silhouette. Bella and Edward sit motionless in the idling rental car for several minutes. She stares fixedly at the black, wrought iron gate she must enter. She remembers the last time she was here. The chilly wind had been unrelenting that day, just as it is now. Friends and what family she has left—distant relatives mostly, and Charlie, of course—were standing around, sniffling and whispering as they watched the casket sink slowly into the ground. Her right arm was wrapped in a cast; her forehead, arm, and shoulder were stitched and bandaged. The soreness in her limbs was worsened by the cold. Everything had hurt that day, from the inside out.

She clutches the bundle of flowers in her lap and brings them to her nose. The irises are a lovely shade of purple, her mom's favorite color.

She sighs heavily, wondering if she will break down again when she finally sees the polished rock. "When I see it, it's real."

"It's real whether you see it or not." Edward looks at her, watches her as she inhales the scent of the purple flowers, and recalls what it felt like to see Esme, Rosalie, and his father's names engraved in granite for the first time. He remembers feeling so close to them yet so far away.

"You have to forgive yourself. You have to say goodbye," he says as he tucks her hair behind her ear.

"I can't do this." She shakes her head, knowing that she can no longer escape into a comfortable state of numbness and make believe that it is all a bad dream. When she is three thousand miles away in Washington, it is easy to pretend like she's on a long vacation, like Renee is back home waiting for her. But here, beneath this blue-gray Delta sky, there is no more pretending.

"Yes, you can, Bella," he reassures her. "It's going to hurt like hell, but you can."

She nods and grabs the flowers in one hand and the door handle in the other.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Edward asks.

"No. I need to do this alone."

"Okay. Take your time. I'll be right here waiting for you." The warmth of his smile and his words wraps around her like a blanket. She returns his smile and exits the car.

She doesn't feel the cold air hitting her skin as she treks over gravel and steps through the gate. She focuses on the path ahead of her, knowing that the grave won't be difficult to find. The cemetery is small, and her feet move with a memory of their own to the back, left corner. Soon, she sees the upright headstone with the familiar name inscribed in black letters and takes tentative steps until she reaches it.

While kneeling in the damp grass, she traces the etching with frozen fingertips. It is beautiful, light granite with a cross emblazoned above the name.

_Renee Marie Swan_

_February 15, 1973 – March 12, 2009_

There is something about seeing it, something that makes it concrete in her mind for the first time. The tears come, but not in torrents.

Renee is gone, and Bella knows that her actions, though unintentional, caused that. But she also knows that Edward is right; Renee loved her unconditionally. She would forgive Bella in a heartbeat. Now Bella has to forgive herself.

Instead of having a one-way conversation with the rock in front of her, she considers everything in silence. She speaks to her mother in her head like a quiet prayer, wishing so badly that she could just have one more day with her. There are so many things she needs to tell her. She needs to tell her how much she loves her and that she is sorry she didn't say that enough when she was alive. That she will stop denying herself a future and do something to make her proud one day. She wants to tell her about Edward and how she refuses to let the fear her mother instilled in her destroy what they have. That she is sorry that she never found that kind of happiness and love while she was alive, and that she was wrong in making her only daughter believe that such things do not exist. Most of all, she wants to tell her that she is sorry for what happened, and she would give anything to change it if she could.

But she can't, and she understands that now. All she can do is promise that she will live—live the life her mother gave her and be grateful for each day she has on this earth until, hopefully, they see each other again.

Bella presses a kiss to her fingers and places it on the stone. She whispers goodbye and lays the bundled blooms on the grass. When she returns to the car, Edward is waiting with love in his eyes and a kiss on his lips. Just for her.

"Are you alright?" He studies her face in search of a sign of hope.

"No," she sniffles. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose into a tissue from her purse. Then, she takes a deep breath and offers him the closest thing to a smile she can manage. "But I will be."

* * *

**A/N: **One more chapter and then an epilogue. I can't believe this is coming to a close. Thank y'all for reading & showing me so much love! :-)


	29. Chapter 29: New Beginning

**A/N: **We're skipping ahead a bit. The last two chapters were December; this chapter is mid-January thru March. Hope you like it. :-D

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: New Beginning**

January. The cold month brings a warm new beginning for Bella. She spends Sunday afternoon at the Cullen house. She and Carlisle sit beside each other at the antique desk in his study. He lets her use his computer to peruse the University of Washington website and fill out her admissions application. The process is simple enough; however, she needs his assistance when it comes to the complicated financial aid application.

She clicks the final 'submit' button and sits back in the leather chair with a sigh of relief.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate your help, Carlisle. I hope I get in."

He laughs lightly and shakes his head. "Getting in won't be a problem for you, Bella, especially with your grades and test scores. You're going to do just fine."

In an unexpected gesture, she leans over and curls her arms around his neck. She whispers "thank you" and he pats her back. He has faith in her. Edward has faith in her. And for the first time, in a longtime, she has a little faith in herself.

They head for the living room where Edward and Alice are lounging in front of the flat-screen. As they walk down the long hallway, Carlisle stops and turns to her.

"Has Alice told you she got a fulltime position at a gallery in Seattle?"

She nods, grinning. "Yeah, she's ecstatic. I'm so happy for her."

Alice squealed the news to her over the phone a few days ago. Bella couldn't be prouder of her friend, but she can't help but feel a twinge of sadness. Alice and Jasper won't be in Port Angeles much longer; but if her plan to attend the UW works out, she will be close to them again.

"She's moving there in February. I'm going to miss having her around all the time." Carlisle smiles but it is weak, wistful. Bella doesn't know what to say, and thankfully, she doesn't have to.

"I was just wondering…" He puts his hands in his pockets and stares down at her, his gold-brown eyes thoughtful. "I won't have anyone else at the bar except Edward and Kate. I know you already have a job at Cal's, but if you're looking for a change, I'd love to have you work for me."

Bella's mouth opens and closes several times with failed attempts to speak. The offer is another beam of sunlight cutting through winter's overcast sky. It seems like more and more opportunities unfold to her with each new day.

"You don't have to decide right now, of course," Carlisle says, somewhat amused at the way her pale cheeks have pinked with an enthusiasm and surprise that renders her momentarily speechless.

"I'll give Cal my two weeks' notice first thing Monday morning," she says.

* * *

Before she leaves Port Angeles that evening, she and Edward spend a few hours at his apartment. They do what they do every Sunday. They lie in his bed, tangled legs beneath tangled sheets, saying goodbye with their reluctant bodies. Staying with Edward is a blissful getaway from Charlie's house and Cal's diner, but these weekend sleepovers and intermittent weeknight visits to the bar are never enough—for him or her.

She twirls a strand of his bed-head hair around her finger, gazes up at green eyes, and wonders when her world started to feel right again. She thinks she knows.

He nuzzles her neck, his warm breath and scruffy face tickling her skin. "What are you thinking so hard about?"

"Carlisle offered me Alice's job," she answers. "Just until I start school in the fall."

He rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. His expression is hopeful. "And?"

"And," she starts as she moves to mirror his position. "I've decided to take it."

"Good. When Alice told me about Seattle, I figured it wouldn't be long before he offered you the job."

"You won't mind if I stay over some nights after work, will you? I may be too tired to drive home so late."

She considers the daily drive—one hour from Charlie's house to the bar and one hour back each night. Making the trip to Port Angeles a few days a week isn't so bad, but this will be a lot different than the ten minute commute to the diner she's gotten used to every day. She worries if the old, gas-guzzling Chevy can handle it.

He snorts a laugh and ruffles her hair. "Did my girlfriend really just ask me if I _mind _her staying the night with me?"

"Well, _do_ you?"

He smirks. "I have a better idea."

His crooked mouth and gleaming eyes make her curious. "What?"

He hesitates, wanting her but not wanting to push her. Before he says it, he leans in and kisses her nose. Then he looks at her, his smirk gone.

"Move in with me."

Taken by surprise for the second time that day, she sits up abruptly and pulls the sheet tighter around her bare chest. Her brows scrunch. "Are you serious?"

"Only if you want to, Bella. I won't be upset if you're not comfortable with the idea."

She leans against the headboard and looks around the large space, considering it carefully. She sees them standing in the kitchen cooking dinner together at night. She sees them sharing the shower every morning. She sees her clothes hanging next to his in the closet. She gets a glimpse of their future when—if, rather—they move to Seattle, and she likes what she sees.

But she needs more time. More time to figure things out before making such a big move. More time to repair the damage with Charlie because he _is_ trying. She wants to try, too.

"Edward, I think we should wait. If everything works out with school and I move to Seattle in September, I want you to come with me. I want us to be together more than anything."

"I told you I would go wherever you go." His face is serious. "I'll find a great apartment for us. Alice and Jasper will be close by. You can go to classes, and you won't even have to work if you don't want to—"

Overwhelmed, she holds up her hands and interrupts his string of plans. "Edward, I want to do this on my own. I want to support myself. I don't want you to buy some fancy place for us and foot the bill for everything."

"But, Bella, I don't mind helping you."

"I know, and I appreciate that. But I want to get a part-time job, and I want to pay my own bills. We can get a place together, but it will have to be a place where I can afford to pay half the rent and utilities. Or I can live in the dorm and visit you." She pauses to study his expression. Judging by his set jaw and furrowed brows, he doesn't like what he's hearing—especially not the last part. She sighs and strokes his hair again. "I don't want to have to depend on anybody else to take care of me. Can you understand that?"

His expression softens. "Yes, I can." He gives her a playful glare. "But you are _not _living in the dorm. We'll get an apartment, and we can split everything if that's what you want."

She grabs his shoulder and pushes him onto his back. She climbs on top of him and attacks his upturned lips, effectively silencing his little-boy laughter.

"I want you," she moans into his mouth.

He rolls her over, pins her to the bed and sinks his weight into her. She feels the eagerness of his body and the electric charge surging between them. He aligns them, connects them, looks into her eyes and means what he says.

"You have me."

* * *

February is good, but March is better. Except for today. Today is the day it happened, exactly one year ago.

Bella wakes up before the sun even though she doesn't have to be at work until much later in the evening. Being a waitress at Cullen's is a welcome change. There is no grumbling Cal—although he's not a bad guy, really—and most importantly, there is no snide Jessica Stanley. There is Edward, Carlisle, and her new, considerably nicer coworker, Kate.

She hears Charlie fumbling around in the bathroom as he gets ready for work. She goes downstairs to the kitchen and searches the fridge for something to make breakfast for two. The shelves are full of groceries, but absent of alcohol. She grabs an armful of ingredients and gathers all the necessary dishware and utensils. The small kitchen comes to life with a symphony of early morning sounds: the cracking of a few eggs, the beating of a whisk, the sizzle of a frying pan. Bella hums as she follows Edward's recipe with care.

She focuses hard on the task at hand. Blend, pour, flip. She tries to think of anything but…

"Smells good," Charlie says. Bella turns and smiles.

He steps into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. He fidgets, scratches his head and his mustache. A man in uniform shouldn't look this nervous—especially not the chief of police when he is standing in his own house. He is well aware of the date.

Bella stacks three pancakes on each of the two plates on the counter and tops them off with a pad of butter. Without a word, Charlie takes the plates and puts them on the table. When he goes back for the syrup, he sees that his daughter has not moved. Her back is to him, and her eyes are fixed on the counter. A tear rolls down her cheek. When she feels him staring, she quickly swipes it away and sucks in a sharp breath. She promised herself she would not fall apart today.

Before she can pretend everything is all right, she feels two arms encircle her. Charlie wraps her in a hug and she embraces him in kind. His own brown eyes grow misty because he can't remember the last time he hugged someone. This time last year, he was sitting beside her hospital bed. He had held her bruised hand as she slept; she never felt it. He didn't know what to do then, but he knows what to do now. While the pancakes cool on the table, he holds his baby girl in his arms and lets her cry against his chest.

"It's okay, baby," he says, squeezing her tight. "I'm so sorry, Bella."

She pulls away, sniffling and wiping her face. "Me too."

He shakes his head. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. Not a thing in the world."

She nods, but she doesn't believe him. She hasn't forgiven herself just yet. It still hurts.

"I've screwed up a lot over the years, but I'm trying to be better." His face looks older than it should, but it looks sincere.

She hugs him again. "I know."

"I love you, Bells," he says as he rests his chin on top of her head.

Her words are muffled by his jacket, but he hears them. "I love you too, Dad."

* * *

The bar is buzzing with local bodies that night. A long day at work brings them in for a round of cocktails, dinner, and laughs. It's a good night even though it's not a good day. Bella keeps busy, manning her stations and meeting the patrons with a smile. She's not old enough to serve alcohol, so she brings out food orders and soft drinks only. Kate nudges her shoulder as she passes by with a tray balanced on one hand.

"Hey, Bella, your boyfriend wants you," she says with a wink.

Bella's eyes shoot across the room and land on the lanky form leaning across the polished bar. He beckons her over with a come-hither motion of his finger; he is neither smiling nor frowning. She shoves her notepad in her pocket and her pencil behind her ear as she strides toward him.

His lips graze her ear with a question he asked once already when she first arrived. He knows the date, too.

"Are you sure you're okay? Carlisle won't mind if—"

She touches his cheek. "I'm fine, I promise. I need this."

"K." He smiles, licks his lips, and whispers in her ear again. Only she can hear his low voice over the din of the crowd. "You're the only one I see tonight, Bella."

He feels the heat of her blushing cheek before he sees it. She reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze. Standing on her tip-toes, she kisses his cheek. No one is paying any attention, save for two women seated at the bar. They breathe collective sighs of envy.

Bella swivels on her heels and walks back to work. Sensing his green eyes still burning upon her, she turns around and mouths the words, "I love you." He mouths them back.

Shortly after ten o'clock, Carlisle changes places with Edward behind the bar. Edward makes his way to the stage, grabs his guitar, and takes a seat on the barstool. Bella is too busy to notice. Kate swings by and takes the tray from her hand.

"Why don't you take a break," she says, gesturing to a vacant table in front of the stage.

Bella gives her new coworker a confused look at first, but then she sees him sitting up there behind the microphone. He hadn't mentioned he was playing tonight. After he runs his hand through his shaggy, cinnamon-colored hair, he adjusts the mic and tweaks his guitar strings. The dim lights cast a soft amber glow around him. His tongue darts across his lips and his mouth curves into a grin when he finds her face in the audience. She smiles back, feeling her heart flutter like hummingbird wings.

The same long fingers that caressed her earlier are now strumming a familiar song. The tempo is slower, the voice younger and softer than that of the original artist. She has heard this tune on the oldies station a hundred times before, and she knows the lyrics by heart.

Bella Swan is the "brown eyed girl" in Edward Masen's song tonight.

His velvet voice washes over her like the warm weight of an ocean wave. Like a thousand fingertips ghosting over bare skin. Like cool rain tempering the sizzle of a Delta summer. The fuzzy warmth and tingles come immediately, but the numbness does not follow. She doesn't need it anymore. She wants to feel everything: hope, faith, forgiveness, and above all, love.

* * *

**A/N: **Sigh…Van Morrison was playing in the background as I wrote this. This is the final full-length chapter. I am saving my Oscar-winning goodbye speech for the end of the epilogue. It will be posted soon, and I promise to reply to every review since I have been lousy at that lately. If you wish to read any of my new stories or possible outtakes, please add me to your author alert list or follow me on Twitter. Until then, happy reading. The fics that own my heart are listed under my favorite stories on my profile; I encourage you to check them out. There are so many amazing authors out there in FF world! Show them some love. ;-)

I can't say it enough…THANK YOU!!!


	30. Epilogue: September in Seattle

**A/N: **And so we have come full circle. Here it is—the final chapter of Olympic Rain. Say goodbye to Southern Bella & Novocainward (heaven help me, I'm such a dork).

* * *

**Epilogue: September in Seattle**

"Happy birthday, Love." Silken words caress her ear and a gentle hand shakes her shoulder, rousing her from sweet dreams. Two perfect lips press a kiss to her forehead. She smiles before she opens her eyes.

Sleepy brown eyes meet vibrant green in the yellow light of an early, September morning. Last night had been their first in their new downtown Seattle apartment. It is nice but not over the top—a perfect place for a young couple beginning a new life together.

"Thank you," she says before a yawn. "Why did you wake me up so early? I could have slept till noon."

She pretends to be upset, but she doesn't mind. What twenty-year-old girl would mind dreaming of her love and then waking up to find that he is real? He is kneeling beside the bed, wearing only his boxers and a crooked grin. Her cell phone is in his hand.

"Your dad wanted to talk to you before he left for work," he says. She takes the phone from him; she'd been sleeping too deeply to hear it ring.

"Hey, Dad," she answers, pleasantly surprised and relieved that he remembered this time.

"Happy birthday, Bells!" Charlie's gravelly morning voice sounds cheerful, and she is happy to hear it. A card from Forks is in the mail along with a check she doesn't know about yet. It is just a little something for a daughter starting college life in the big city.

She laughs. "Thank you."

After a short series of questions—about Edward, the new apartment, and such—he says the most important thing. "I love you."

"Love you, too, Dad." She flips the phone shut and rolls onto her back. She has not been awake for more than ten minutes, and already this birthday is infinitely better than the one last year.

"Get up," Edward commands, nudging her gently. "I've got something for you."

She shakes her head, incredulous. He is much too chipper and alert at this hour, especially considering that they had stayed up so late breaking in their new bed last night. Her pale cheeks flush crimson at the thought.

Stretching and yawning, she rises. "Aren't you the least bit exhausted?" she asks with a quirked brow and teasing tone.

"I should be considering you kept me up till almost three a.m. But no, I'm wide awake. We still have a lot of unpacking to do before school starts."

Her stomach swims with nervous energy. Her first real college classes begin in less than a week. The English major will have to stay on her toes; she has a full academic scholarship to keep. Edward has a full schedule of courses as well. A business degree will come in handy when it comes time to run a business of his own in the future—a place that he can be proud of. It probably won't involve bartending…something to do with music, perhaps.

"Let me get a shower first," she says in the midst of another yawn.

She walks into the bathroom, brushes her teeth quickly, and steps beneath the hot water. Admiring her naked silhouette behind foggy glass, Edward cannot resist. He sheds his boxers and joins her in the steam.

When they are finished, dried and dressed, they try out their new kitchen. They share breakfast and conversation before Edward disappears for a minute or two. He returns with a small jar in one hand and a smaller box in the other. Bella giggles when he gives her the jar first. She unties the ribbon, twists the lid, and eats two Maraschino cherries with a smile.

"Now for the real gift," he says as he gives her the wrapped box.

With wide eyes, she eagerly unwraps the shiny paper and nearly cries when she sees what waits inside. A beautiful white-gold, sapphire ring sparkles in the black velvet case. He slides it onto her left ring finger, feeling her pulse quicken as he holds her wrist. It's just a birthstone for now, but he thinks maybe—just maybe—she may trust him to put a diamond there one day. That is years away; he knows they'll have to work up to that. A wily smirk sweeps across his lips. She figures he must be quite proud of himself, but there is a little more to it than that.

"I love you so much," she declares. She wraps herself around him and kisses him as if her lips have never before met his mouth. His long, string-strumming fingers entwine in her hair as he kisses her back, hard and sincere.

"No, Bella Swan," he whispers, "I think I love you more."

* * *

**A/N: **And they graduated, got married, had hundreds more hot lemons, made beautiful babies, and lived happily ever after…The End! ;-)

Now for my Oscar-winning speech:

Discovering the world of fan fiction has been a great experience, and I have learned so much about myself, the fandom, & the power of written words. THANK YOU to everyone who has read, reviewed, and recommended this story. Your love, kindness, and encouragement have touched my heart, truly. Every compliment, suggestion, constructive criticism, and honest comment has been very much appreciated. A very special thank you to those readers who have followed this story since the very beginning way back in August, as well as a huge thanks to my Twilighted beta Megsly/angelicwish. Hugs & kisses to the lovely ladies who follow me on Twitter & show me so much love. Thank you to Sandy at SFFR, the ladies of 7 Stories Podcast, & AngstGoddess (and whomever else that I may be forgetting or do not know about) for their much-appreciated pimpage. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to my real-life Alice (Kimmie) for taking the time to humor me by reading this and for keeping my obsessive hobby a secret!

Now the blinking light is telling me to get my wordy ass off the damn stage already.

Love, Addi :o)


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